


Imperfections 4: Necessary Parts

by Dasha (Dasha_mte)



Series: Imperfections [4]
Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-26
Updated: 2011-02-26
Packaged: 2017-10-15 23:12:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dasha_mte/pseuds/Dasha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair starts work 'for real,' Naomi visits, and Jim faces some horrifying truths. It should all be a piece of cake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Imperfections 4: Necessary Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, it's still and AU. And a crossover (athough I don't think anybody actually crosses over in this one). For this installment, there's even more talking and people being reasonable. I can barely stand to look myself in the mirror. Many thanks to Martha, who put up with all kinds of surprising digressions while this was ongoing. She had a five month cliffhanger, and she never griped once! And when it was all over, she betaed in good spirits.
> 
> Disclaimer: Jim, Blair, Simon, and The Sentinel belong to Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount and no copyright infringement is intended. So: not Mine. Not even rented, really. Just sort of borrowed. I'll give them back when I'm done.

"Some days, Sandburg, I really hate you. I just wanted you to know that." Jim said, sullenly peeking out from under the blindfold. He was standing on a low balance beam in the sentinel lab at Rainier. Blair had to look up at him even more than usual. The glower from height, he decided, was especially effective.

Fortunately, Blair wasn't easily impressed. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Gripe, gripe, gripe. I'm so mean. Just put the blindfold on and get on with it."

Scowling, Jim pulled the flap down and froze, his movements abruptly becoming very slow. His left hand slid out from his body, seeking a balance point, and he barely breathed.

"Take your time," Blair murmured. "Move when you're ready. Everything's good."

Jim's left foot slid forward about half an inch. "What about 'puke when I'm ready?'" And there was a harsh edge to Jim's griping that hadn't been there a moment before.

"Dizzy?"

"That would be 'yes,' Chief."

"Ok, stop. Take it off."

Jim froze. "What."

"Stop. Take the blindfold off. We'll try something else."

Jim only lifted the corner of the cloth. "Why?" he asked suspiciously, pinning Blair with part of one eye.

Blair sighed. "Because you're motion sick."

"Look. Chief. You don't seem to get the whole 'coach' shtick. I'm supposed to gripe, you're supposed to badger me into continuing. No pain, no gain. I thought you understood that."

"Right. And when you slip in your vomit and break your arm, we'll have made lots of progress. We're moving too fast. Come here." He held out his hand and Jim stepped down onto the practice mat, his bare feet steady now that he could see. When he stepped onto the regular floor, Blair stopped him and adjusted his posture--or seemed to. Jim's posture was fine, it was his orientation Blair was working on. He took his time, giving Jim a chance to locate himself in the world again while he pretended to position his shoulders.

"Let's try the blindfold again. This time, we'll start on the floor, and you can use me to orient on." Jim pulled the blindfold down and stood quietly. Blair waited a moment and asked, "You good?" Jim nodded and then swayed. Blair laid a single finger on his partner's shoulder. "Stay calm. Pay attention to me. Closing your eyes when you're sitting down is not like wearing a blindfold while standing up. With sight completely out of the way, you're paying attention to information from your other senses--and I bet that's a lot of information. The volume on hearing is probably all over the place, but what's really causing problems is your inner ear and your kinesic sense of your body."

"Every time I move my head here it's like being in a tilt-a-whirl."

"Right. But as you get used to the sensations, they won't be so jarring and you'll be able to make sense of them. Jim, what you're feeling now is why sentinel aerialists get the big bucks at the Circque de Solei. It can be very useful."

"Just for argument's sake, when? So I have perfect balance for a firing squad, big whoop."

"Well, like now," Blair said, taking a step back.

"Jeez! Don't move while you're talking."

"Why?"

"It's like watching a train go by. You know, that moment when you don't know if it's you or the train moving any more? Hold still."

"Uh, uh. Orienting on me is too easy. Start listening to other sounds in the room. Pay attention to what your body is telling you. When you are sure you know where you are and that the floor is not moving, I want you to try to walk forward."

"So basically, this...ability is useful if your partner takes you to a silly gym and asks you to do pointless things?"

"Say you're chasing a rogue aerialist across a scaffolding in the dark?"

"Sentinel aerialist?"

"Or one with night vision goggles." Blair tried to ignore the absurd depths Jim had just led him to. "Or what if you get light blinded during a fight and have to close your eyes? I don't know. Something. Come on, Jim. Five year old kids do this."

Jim took a step forward and swayed slightly. When Blair reached for him, though, Jim waved him off and took another step. "Sandburg, I'm going to stand still. I want you to walk in a circle around me, ok?"

Grinning, Blair made a clockwise circle around Jim. Despite the rocky start, he was adapting fairly quickly. If Jim were in serious distress, he wouldn't be griping so much. "Jim, what does the ambient sound of the room tell you about the size and shape of the space you're in? How much echo do you hear?" This time when Blair took a step to the side while talking, Jim didn't complain. "If you don't have enough sound to work with, clap your hands."

Jim played with ambient sound and his inner ear for a while. Blair stood by and tried not to interfere too much. Jim had good instincts and his confidence had improved dramatically in the four months since Blair had started working with him. Sometimes he just needed room to experiment and practice.

"Hey, Chief. It's twenty-five to one. We better get a move on." Jim took off the blindfold.

"What, you're developing perfect time sense now?" Blair asked, impressed despite himself.

Jim laughed. "No. The professor in the class upstairs just announced that they have five minutes left for questions." He went to Blair's backpack and dropped the blindfold in. "Come, let's get a move on. We don't want to be late for your first day."

"No," Blair said, sweating slightly. The little laminated card that identified him as an Licensed Guide (probationary) had arrived with Thursday's mail, and though he'd brought it down to Vera in personnel first thing Friday morning, he and Jim had spent Friday doing what they'd been doing for the last couple of months--back-up forensics, low risk interviews, and paperwork. Today was the first time they'd been assigned to a case like a regular detective team. They were now officially detailed to a small taskforce that was working on a string of carjackings. They would spend the afternoon and evening shadowing a Ferrari, hoping someone would try to steal it.

Blair felt woefully unprepared. He didn't even have the basic training forensic guides usually got, let alone whatever it took to work with a detective. All he had was ten hours of firearms training (because even though he wasn't carrying a gun, there were too many in Jim's world not to have the basics) and a copy of the Criminal Code. It wasn't too unusual to be so clueless--a guide's job was the sentinel, not the sentinel's job after all. But god, people *shot at* Jim. And probably worse than that....

They stopped by Wonderburger and picked up lunch on the way to the station, eating the sandwiches during the meeting. Besides the driver of the bait car, there would be a second chase car and a black and white trailing a short distance behind. There were, besides Jim and Captain Banks, five cops in the room. None of them gave Blair a second look. It was kind of a relief; the detectives in major crime had been slow to warm up to Blair. The only guide most of them had ever worked with to any great extent had been a real piece of work, enough to give all guides a bad name....bad enough that most of those really tough guys had probably gone home every night thanking god that they hadn't been born sentinels. But over the past month Blair had made a point of chatting up Jim's coworkers. He'd even managed to get Brown and Rafe to join them for lunch a couple of times and he'd gotten Simon Banks over for dinner. It's true, nobody was greeting him like an old buddy, but at least the suspicious glances had nearly stoopped.

"So this is it?" Blair asked after they'd been driving in circles for an hour, keeping the Ferrari barely in sight.

"Yep. This is it."

"Ok," Blair grinned, glancing sideways at Jim. "I can do this. Like a car chase, but slower."

"Very funny. You're a card, Sandburg."

Blair smiled slightly. Jim looked good. He would be listening to the Ferrari as well as negotiating traffic, watching out for possible predators, and talking to Blair and even all of that together wasn't making him edgy. Blair felt slightly vindicated. He had known in his heart that Jim could handle his senses, that he was *not* fragile or 'touchy.' He'd been sure. "Oh, hey, have we heard anything about the Anderson case?"

"Yeah. Becker's trying to cut a deal."

"No. You're kidding." A couple of weeks before Blair had gone to a tiny tourist town called Rossburg with Jim and Simon so that Jim could testify at some kind of hearing. The preceding summer an old friend of Simon's had been killed at a class reunion he had (with tragic irony that made Blair wince) not gone to. He'd talked Jim into going back with him for the funeral to have a 'look around,' nothing official, naturally. They'd left Jim's guide (who had claimed haring off to nowhere wasn't in his job description) and, perhaps not coincidentally, gotten some excellent detective work done. A couple of days was apparently enough time to dig out a boatload of evidence implicating some hotshot local business man and the sheriff not only in Peggy Anderson's murder, but a cover-up of major environmental violations and fraud.

Jim shrugged. "Don't worry about it. It won't happen. The evidence is solid. This will go to trial and they will get a conviction."

"Will you have to testify at the trial?"

"Maybe. It won't be for a while though." Blair sighed inwardly. They'd spent three days in Rossburg and Jim hadn't gotten more than two or three hours sleep during the whole trip. Jim hadn't been able to give Blair a good reason--or at least not a consistent one. The bed smells funny. The birds are too loud. There are mice in the walls. Blair's suspicion was that it was Simon, wakeful and depressed in the connecting room, that was keeping Jim awake, but he was reluctant to bring it up with Jim. In the end, after a dozen failed techniques, Blair had given up trying to 'solve' the problem and just decided to stay awake in solidarity.

"Uh uh," Jim had said. "No, Chief, one of us needs to be alert tomorrow. Come on."

"No, I'm fine. Really. All nighters are a way of life for grad students."

"You're exhausted. I could put you to sleep in three minutes."

Halfway into a denial, Blair had frozen. Jim knew a slew of ways to put someone to sleep; Blair had taught them to him. But which ones he would pick and how good he'd be at it, that was another question. Curious about the answer, Blair had taken him up on the challenge.

"Lie down and close your eyes."

"Original."

"No talking." He covered Blair with the blanket. "Take a deep breath. Let go of your tension." Jim laid the base of his thumb against Blair's forehead. The steady weight of it was relaxing, and while Blair was busy cataloging his partner's technique, he fell asleep. So the trip had been informative, in its way, but Blair didn't look forward to having to go back for the trial. Next time, at least, he would make sure that Simon's room wasn't even on the same floor.

"So when does your mom come in?"

Blair blinked back to the present. "Friday. I told you. You know, Jim, there's still time to make reservations for her at--"

"Sandburg, she's your mother. You can't--"

"Jim, you're just not listening."

"What? You think I won't like her?"

"No, she's great. That's not the point. The point is--"

"Hold that thought, Chief. I think we got a bite."

Blair's blood ran cold. "What? Where?"

"See that silver convertible? Just made the turn after our guy. That's three now." Jim took the corner behind them. The convertible was still behind the Ferrari.

"There we go," Jim murmured.

"Where?"

"There. Silver BMW."

Blair strained to see, but suddenly things were moving very quickly. The radio squawked. "I think we caught ourselves a fish. Looks like she's trying to push me into the north end of Bradford alley."

Jim picked up the mike. "Ellison here. I'll head 'em off from the other side."

"Why don't we go in after them?" Blair asked. He wasn't sure how complicated Jim's driving could get while he was simultaneously trying to track and predict two other cars.

"Until they actually take the car, all we can charge them with is attempted robbery which they'd plea bargain down to nothing. They drive the car away, then we can nail them on grand theft auto."

Lovely. Wonderful. It couldn't be simple. Jim hung a hard right and tore up a side street. Blair couldn't see either the bait or the fish, now. It was amazing, he thought, how just when you got used to waiting things started Happening.

"Damn," Jim said. "They've already pulled him over. Our guy is trying to stall." He picked up the radio again, giving instructions to the black and white that had been shadowing from a distance. Even before he finished, Jim cursed again. "They've made him." He switched channels. "This is Ellison. I've got a carjacking in progress. Bradford alley. Requesting backup."

They turned again, skirting a construction site. Blair held on to the dashboard, feeling a small, bright sunspot of adrenalin. The carjackers were about to get away. The police driver was in danger. Everything was so close--

Jim slammed another turn and jerked to a stop, nose to nose with a semi parked in the alley in front of them. There was no room to go around. "Damnit!" Jim snapped.

"What? Did they get away?" Blair couldn't see anything.

"Not completely," Jim said, bolting from the truck.

At the same time the driver's side door of the semi opened and a lean man darted for the narrow passage between Jim's truck and the alley wall. Jim leaped like a cat snatching a bird out of flight and the two went down in a tangle of limbs. Astonished, Blair scrambled out of the truck and hurried on unsteady legs to Jim's side. If he had been thinking that Jim might have been hurt or that Blair might be useful in *any* way, however, he was mistaken. Jim was coolly cuffing his captive while reciting his Miranda.

"My arm. I'm gonna sue."

Jim hauled the wiry man to his feet. "Right. And you'll just tell the judge you were out for a Sunday drive. Let's go."

There were sirens then, finally, and more police. Jim shoved his prisoner on one of the uniforms and called for someone to take the truck to impound. The bait driver--Ed? Ted? Blair wasn't sure of his name, came up to apologize, but Jim brushed him off and stormed back to the truck, seemingly pissed.

When Blair got in on his side a couple of seconds later, though, Jim was hunched over holding his arm and cursing softly.

"How badly are you hurt?" Blair asked softly.

"How the hell should I know? It feels like I've ripped my arm out at the shoulder, but it's probably nothing!"

"Jim, can you--"

"No, I can do this," Jim growled, and Blair shut up. After a moment of furious silence, though, Jim ground his teeth and said, "Fine. You do it. Just make it stop."

"No," Blair said. "You were right. You can do this."

"I can't--"

"You can. Everything's on high right now. Don't start by turning down the pain. Start with your vision. You know what normal focus looks like. Take your time. Move everything to a lower state of awareness. Relax." Blair closed his mouth and sat very quietly. At this point he could almost do it *for* Jim, and seeing his partner in pain filled him with a raging urgency. But pushing Jim's 'buttons' and changing his perceptions wouldn't be doing him any favors. The control needed to be Jim's, especially with small day-to-day emergencies. And the skills sure as hell had to be Jim's too, for those times when Blair might not be there.

After two or three horribly long minutes, Jim nodded and stretched. "Ok," he said. Blair slid closer on the seat and pushed Jim's shirt out of the way. "What?" Jim said.

"Let me see it. You might be hurt."

"*Now* you want to look?"

"Yeah. You might be overcompensating." Blair slid his hands over Jim's slightly damp skin, starting at the base of the neck. He probed the shoulder junction and then down Jim's arm until his hands got stuck by Jim's sweater. "No heat. No swelling. I think you're ok."

"I already figured that out." Jim shook his head. "Let's go. I want to find out what kind of fish we brought up." The driver wasn't talking, but his prints identified him as Tony DeLuca, some kind of multiple offender. Jim thought he could use that to salvage something from the failed operation. While he was discussing it with Simon, Blair's mother called. From where Blair was sitting, Jim looked almost comical--almost splitting himself in half, trying to carry on his conversation with Simon while also trying to eavesdrop on Blair's conversation at the same time. As soon as they were out of Simon's office, he pounced. "Well?"

"What, you couldn't hear?" Jim gave him a dirty look, and Blair thought briefly about teasing him with a long lecture about respecting guide privacy. "She's coming early."

"Early? How early?"

"Tomorrow. Before noon."

"You're kidding. I haven't cleaned. Blair! Why?"

"Well, she was managing this coffee house in LA--"

"What? Coffee house?" Jim was gaping at him in horrified bewilderment. Blair wasn't sure if he was reacting to the chaos of Blair's life or just the chaos of Blair's story telling.

"You know, the kind where they serve really extravagant deserts and give poetry readings. Kind of retro, but not really. You know? Anyway, she was taking a vacation--she usually does in January--stop here for a long weekend, then go on to this retreat thing, but it burned down?"

"The retreat?"

"No, the coffee house. Well, not all the way down. But the place next door, apparently there was a problem with the wiring, and so now there's lots of smoke and water damage to the coffee house and they're shut down for a while, so she figured why wait?"

"Why wait? I haven't cleaned yet. And it's not like I'm going to have time tonight—Damn. Tonight."

"Jim, it'll be fine. She won't care." There was no use, obviously, in pointing out that the loft was spotless, but Blair tried anyway. "Anyway, it's already clean enough."

"She's your mother! God, I thought when I got divorced, at least I wouldn't have to deal with in-laws any more!" Jim collected a hand full of files from his desk and hurried out the door. Blair wasn't sure if it was a symbolic flight or if he just needed the feeling of movement.

"She's not like that. Really. Don't worry. She's very open, totally new age. One of the original hippies. She even used to date Timothy Leary. Well, not date ... actually more like live with. In fact, I always thought he might have been..."

"Your father?" A flicker of surprise and embarrassment teetered around Jim's eyes--as though he wasn't quite sure if Blair's parentage was a matter for sympathy or shame-- but then he seemed to soften slightly. "Well, knowing you, that doesn't surprise me, Chief."

Blair grinned at him, "Well, there were a lot of candidates." It was after seven, and their prisoner was still at the county emergency room getting his arm set. Jim sighed. "All right. Fine. We'll talk to him in the morning. I can't interview him on whatever shot of pain meds they gave him anyway."

Blair sighed. "Thank you."

"No, no. We have to do this, I know that." Jim tried for a confident smile as he took his jacket off the hook and put it on. "How late are we, anyway?"

"Only about ten minutes. I called to say we'd be late. Fortunately, It's Jack. He gets it."

"Marcia going to be there?"

Blair winced, "Yes." Jim had met Jack's sentinel three weeks before after Blair had taken the guide exam. Although the formal documentation took a while to process, the computer had given him his score immediately, so Blair's advisor had known there was something to celebrate right away, and, although he'd been Blair's advisor for less than a semester, he'd done the thing advisors traditionally did when a student passed the NGAE and taken him to dinner. Jim had come too, of course, and so had Marcia. The two sentinels had taken an instant dislike to each other.

To his credit, Jim just nodded agreeably. Blair frowned, but waited until they were in the truck before he said, "Um. I should probably tell you. Ah. Don't touch Jack while Marcia's around."

Jim looked at him in confusion. "Why would I touch Jack?"

"I'm not saying you would. Just...be careful not to. Don't shake hands."

"Okay," Jim said slowly. "You going to explain this, Chief?"

"It's a--"

"Do not say this is a sentinel thing."

"No, it's an ex-spy thing. Actually, it's also a military thing, but you didn't spend a lot of time with sentinels in the army."

"No, and from what you've said, I didn't miss much."

"Nothing useful, anyway." Blair sighed. Observing sentinels and guides working in defense would have taught Jim a lot of bad habits. All of those relationships were dysfunctional, if only because of the organizational structure that discouraged acknowledging weakness, couldn't successfully incorporate making an allowance for emotional attachments, and kept pairs together for an average of two years (rather than the ten to twelve years of the American civilian average or the thirty or more years in most non-industrial societies.) Guides in the military or federal law enforcement tended to be insensitive and "objective." After a few years of rotating guides who didn't address minor (sometimes major) problems and didn't provide emotional security, the sentinels often got tense and even generally hostile. "It's a protocol thing. I've been meaning to mention it." Or dreading to mention it. "For feds, sentinels don't mess with other sentinel's guides."

"You're fucking kidding me."

"Um, no. It's considered very impolite. Sometimes an act of aggression."

"To shake hands. And Jack is putting up with this shit? Marcia hasn't even been in espionage for...years, anyway."

"I'm not saying she'd tear your head off. It's not like that. But. She's having a hard time right now. And besides...she thinks of Jack as vulnerable."

"Vulnerable? Are we still talking about Jack Kelso?"

"You have to understand. When they were working together he wasn't disabled. He's—"

"The man carries concealed *all the time*. He put me in a head lock. This is ludicrous—" He stopped, shooting Blair a stern look. "Don't you start."

"No, I'm not starting. I'm completely over it."

"Right."

Well, Blair was mostly over it. He supposed that as long as Jim was ok with the headlock incident, there was no point in Blair holding a grudge, especially since Jack was the best ally they had. But.

It had happened just a few days after the national guide exam. Classes had just started again and Jack—-despite teaching two classes, organizing a panel on guide attachment for the triple A next year, and trying to settle Marcia in Cascade—-had made time for Blair to bring Jim in to the sentinel gym in the Morton Bio Building behind Hargrove. Jim and Jack had immediately gotten into a complicated discussion about kinesics-—body awareness—-and balance. Then, Jack had said, "Give me your hand." He took the hand in an odd grip, and Jim started to flinch, then froze and gaped. "Interesting, isn't it? As idiosyncratic as sentinel perceptions and reactions tend to be, ninety-five percent do not react to this pressure point."

"But...it's worked before."

"When you weren't on line. It's all very puzzling. We have very little idea how it works. However." He changed his grip slightly and Jim dropped to his knees with a soft whimper. In a flash, Jack had him in a head lock. "There are some pressure points now which were not a problem before. You're going to have to learn how to block-—"

"What the hell do you think you're doing," Blair roared. "Get your hands off him." He had closed on them, fully intending to haul his advisor off his sentinel, but suddenly Jim was free and intercepting him. Blair tried to step past, to push himself between Jim and Jack, but Jim was suddenly as strong as steel and as immovable as granite, and Blair was trapped in his arms. Even held still, he was too furious to think of anything but Jack's betrayal. He stood on tiptoe to lean over Jim's shoulder. "How could you do that! Damn you—"

"Blair, it's all right."

Blair twisted and pulled, trying to get away, but too afraid of hurting Jim to push very hard.

"Chief, I'm fine. It's ok."

And Jack, neither surprised nor contrite: "Blair, he has to learn these things if he is going to defend himself. In his line of work, he can't afford not to learn this."

"You're a guide. You-—he can't—-" Jack knew almost as much about Jim's history as Blair did. He had to know that the idea of Jim being attacked by a guide was intolerable. God! For weeks Jim had flinched away from Blair. Months. They were just starting to make real progress. Jim was just *starting* to reach for Blair for physical comfort, just starting to ask for help as his first response to a problem. They were just getting somewhere-—Blair groaned, too angry to speak.

"I'm ok. Blair. You're not listening. It's ok." Jim's grip tightened even further, and Jim shifted slightly to the left, blocking Blair's view of Jack. "It's ok." And then, gently, "It's all right, Blair. Easy."

Blair shuddered and closed his eyes. Jim was much stronger, and there was no chance of Blair getting away. No chance, really, of moving at all. "Are you ok?" he whispered.

"I'm ok. Blair, I've done this hundreds of times before. Jack's just teaching me. I'm ok."

"We can--we can walk out of here," Blair whispered, despite the fact that that they probably couldn't. No, definitely couldn't. There was no one else who could teach Jim this, he could see that. Slowly, he pulled away, looking past Jim's arm at Jack. Jack, who, he was sure, hadn't learned these things purely as a matter of defense against them. Blair closed his eyes. "I'll just. I'll go stand over there. Just, um. Just."

"I'll take it slow. Ok?"

He hadn't talked to Jack for a week after that, and tonight was the first time they were getting together socially since. Blair was trying not to be angry. It was not as though he had been deceived; Jack had never made a secret of what he used to do for a living. And besides, it was not as though he'd been *wrong*. Jim did need to learn about the physical attacks a sentinel was particularly vulnerable to. And probably, for Jim, the exercise had not even come as a surprise. But. The idea that Jim had been attacked by a guide, a friend, with Blair right there watching made him heartsick. "I'm over it. And I know this business with Marcia is dysfunctional and—"

"Stupid."

"Ok, yes, stupid. But don't shake hands."

***

Marcia Patterson was tall and rather thin, with long, straight, brown hair. She opened the door only after a noticeable wait following their knock--an ambiguous but unsubtle snub from a sentinel--and her smile didn't reach her eyes. "It's nice to see you again. I was wondering when you'd get here."

Blair had called, of course, to give Jack warning that they'd be late, but Marcia clearly wasn't pleased that they'd inconvenienced him all the same. Then Jim handed her the box of candy he was carrying, and her eyes flashed with open dislike. When Blair had asked Jack what to bring, he had specified the brand and type of chocolates his sentinel preferred (but which she would not permit him to keep on hand because while Marcia could use the extra calories, Jack was dieting and she refused to tempt him).

Dinner was ready, of course, but since it was stew it hadn't been hurt by the wait.

"So how are things at the department?" Blair asked as they sat down, hoping to forestall any conversation between Jim and Marcia.

Jack passed him the rolls before answering. "Dramatic. You remember the new graduate secretary you said would be a problem?"

"Yeah. Rachael right?" The last graduate secretary had moved at the end of October because her husband was transferred to Florida. "I haven't seen much of her though. I don't come by the department as often as I used to."

"Apparently, yesterday, one of the first year TA's came in to complain about her copying account-—there was obviously something wrong. The bill said she'd made several thousand copies over the break and she'd been home in Minneapolis. But Rachael stormed into Hal Buckner's office while he was having a meeting with the undergraduate dean of Arts and Sciences and began screaming that all of the graduate students were lying, cheating punks who were out to get her and she was quitting."

"Oh, god. You're kidding."

"Is my imagination this good? Before it was over two of the graduate students and the undergraduate secretary were crying."

"So, is she gone?"

"What? Oh, no. Two weeks notice, you know. Even for psychopaths, apparently. Nobody is happy about it." He shrugged. "I should have been paying more attention. It's coming out that a number of the students have had minor problems with her, but she got the paperwork done on time, so..."

"And I thought cops got all the weird ones," Jim muttered.

Jack entertained them for a while with teaching stories. Every year the intro anthro classes spent two days talking about sentinels, Rainier's sentinel program being central to the department's identity. On one of those days Jack and Michael (one of a very short list of sentinels on the faculty) guest lectured, giving short presentations and answering questions. "It's the questions that kill me," Jack said. "We can't laugh at them, but when the ask things like, 'how do you become a sentinel?' and 'how do they turn the senses off when they're off duty?' you have to wonder if they notice anything that goes on in the world at all."

Blair laughed. "Well, what did you expect? That they'd read the assignment or something?"

"Every year they ask, 'can sentinels get married?'"

"How do you answer it?" Marcia spoke for the first time since sitting down.

"Twenty percent of sentinels get married."

She laughed, "You're kidding." And then, "Divorce?"

"Fifty percent, like everyone else."

She blinked. "Shit. Who is stupid enough to marry us? Certainly not other sentinels!" She glanced at Jim. "Most of us are...completely incompatible."

"I can't exactly picture it myself," Jim said reluctantly. He seemed irked by the idea of agreeing with Marcia.

Marcia nodded. "Of course, there aren't that many sentinels...and only twenty percent of that. There might be that many idiots in the world. What would it take to commit to someone grumpy, fragile and probably very short-lived?"

Blair gasped silently, but Jack just laughed. "Guides."

For the first time, Marcia softened slightly. "Nah. That's just madness."

Jack laughed. "Well, keep that quiet. I'm masquerading as a respectable scientist these days."

Blair and Jack talked research till the end of the meal, then Marcia volunteered to do the dishes and Jack led Jim and Blair into the living room. Jack was all business, now. He barely waited for Blair to sit down before saying, "Your reports are coming in late, Blair. Do we need to change the due dates?"

"He doesn't have a lot of time," Jim said tightly.

"I understand that. And I'm not disciplining him. But I need documentation that shows he's responsible."

"He's responsible--!" Jim started to rise, was frozen by Jack's 'oh, really?' look. "It isn't his fault. My schedule--"

"I'm sorry, Jack. I know you're out on a limb for us," Blair said softly. "I put today's report in you box this morning."

"Things will get a little easier now that you have the exam behind you, but you're still on a kind of probation for a year."

"We know," Jim muttered, and Blair put a hand on his shoulder.

"All right," Jack sighed. "How are the body awareness exercises going?"

They talked for an hour about Jim's progress and Blair's technique. Jack's living room made an informal setting, but his questions were probing and careful all the same. The meeting might have gone on even longer if Marcia hadn't appeared with herbal tea and cookies.

First thing the next morning they interviewed the suspect Jim had apprehended. He was sullen and scared and--Blair thought--deeply hopeless. He hadn't really thought about criminals being depressed before. DeLuca talked about his boss, their methods, other jobs they'd done. Jim paced the small interrogation room, icy and unreadable except when he was intensely intimidating.

And then, suddenly, the slow, sad interrogation seemed to be over and Jim was headed out the door and back to Simon's office. Blair followed along wondering if this was going to be his life for the next god-knew-how-many years and if he would ever know what the heck was going on.

"DeLuca just dropped a dime on Bill Petrie as head of that car theft ring." Jim said to Simon with out even pausing to say hello or acknowledge the pot of coffee he held out hospitably.

"The Bill Petrie? That mob guy that was accused of engineering all those race track robberies a couple years ago."

Clearly this was important, because almost before Blair knew it, they were spinning some kind of complex plan to pull in not only the local gang but also the mastermind. Or rather Jim was spinning and Simon was shaking his head in disbelief. "DeLuca tells Francine that he got away from us and he can't drive because of his arm. He introduces me to her as his cousin."

"Oh, yeah, right. I can see the family resemblance there.

"Okay. A buddy from prison. Whatever. The idea is for me to go inside and smoke out Petrie. This time we're gonna be able to nail him."

"Jim, I can't send a sentinel out under cover."

"Why not? It isn't against policy."

"Yeah, but...the policy assumes that the sentinels will be in forensics, or maybe the bomb unit. I mean--Sandburg?" He looked at Blair imploringly.

"Well, I--"

"Simon, am I on active duty or not? My understanding was I was cleared to do my job. Sandburg? Is there some reason why I can't do my job?"

"Well, I--"

"Are you sure you can drive one of those big rigs?"

"I drove a rig a little bit after high school. It's like riding a bicycle. I mean, once you learn, you never forget."

Simon looked pointedly at Blair. He seemed torn between hopeful and horrified. Blair wanted to jump up and shout, 'hell no, you are not sending my sentinel undercover.' But Jim was looking at him, too, and the pressure of that gaze was irresistible. "No," he murmured. "There shouldn't be any problem."

In a whirlwind the decision was already made and Jim was talking to Deluca again, laying out the plan, giving him no choice because, hay, ADA Sanchez was right up the hall waiting to throw the book at him. Then Jim turned Deluca over to Brown and took off for the police impound, Blair trailing worriedly behind.

***

For over an hour, Jim practiced with the captured semi in the parking lot behind the police impound. Every few moments, Blair opened his mouth to mouth to make a suggestion, but Jim shot him down every time with an impatient scowl. So, Blair sat on his hands and ground his teeth and let Jim struggle with it himself as the geers ground and the breaks squealed and every movement felt like riding a mechanical bull.

It was fairly clear, watching, what was wrong. Jim over-interpreted every sound and movement, and then when things went wrong, he over compensated. Also, at a guess, the big-ass truck was overwhelming as hell. Jim was trying to pay attention to subtle signals from noises and vibrations that were fairly blasting him out of the seat.

Well. He would have to be careful what he let slip after this. The fact that Simon would *have* to find someone else to send under cover was an incredible relief, but Jim wouldn't thank him for thinking that way. It would be best to say as little as possible....

Across the lot, the impound supervisor waved and laughed, saying something Blair couldn't hear. Jim cursed and ground the truck to a stop.

Blair sighed and made a tentative move to be helpful. "How long did it take you to learn to drive again last spring?"

Jim shrugged and looked away. Blair's eyes widened as he realized what that silence meant. "Jim, you lied?"

"No, I didn't lie." But Jim still wouldn't look at him. "I...I had a friend of mine who had a rig. He used to let tool around with it a bit, but..."

"But what?"

"Well, it didn't have a trailer attached to it. This is..."

Blair laughed, knowing he shouldn't. "Different," he said.

"Yeah."

"Yeah." Blair found himself smiling. Was this optimism born of ignorance, or just a very strong ego? Although, maybe it wasn't misplaced; Jim hadn't been doing too badly, considering. He took another look at the gear shift and checked the break. "All right, pop the clutch." Jim blinked at him. "Just do it. See that right there? That's the splitter. It gets you into the next gear level."

"Oh, yeah?" Jim asked, still not moving.

"Yeah."

"How do you know so much about this?"

"I spent a summer driving across country in my uncle's rig. I did half the driving. Want me to take you through the basics again?" Even as he said the words, his heart protested. If Jim couldn't drive the truck, Jim couldn't go under cover. Altogether, that wouldn't be a bad thing.

Jim gave him a sour look. "No, I don't want you to run me through the basics again." He sagged slightly. "I figured maybe I could tune into it with my hearing. You know, kind of like tune into the gears a little bit and listen to the mesh."

Blair sighed, not even knowing where to begin. Before he figured it out, Naomi called to say she'd arrived. Jim panicked, and suddenly it was Blair trying to do justice to two conversations at once. Naomi was suggesting moving the furniture while beside him Jim was freaking out over--well, he wasn't sure what Jim's problem was. There wasn't time to sort it all out anyway; the impound guy was gesturing impatiently, wanting his truck back and in less then an hour they had a meeting with the (slightly shrunken) carjacking taskforce.

Sadly, Jim's driving didn't improve in the fifteen additional minutes they had to devote to practice. The meeting ran long--the remaining members of the team had been doing research on Petrie--a real winner, apparently, although nothing serious had ever been pinned on him. Then there was another long talk with DeLuca, and afterwards Jim begged just one more hour of practice on the truck. Even with Blair's coaching, the semi might as well have been a rock, for all the success Jim had with things like brakes, steering, or the gear shift.

It was late afternoon before the made it home. Blair felt vaguely guilty--although even if he could have scheduled the time that day, Naomi hadn't given him enough warning.

The loft, when they entered, was warm and redolent of sage and familiar cooking. And then Jim sneezed, hard, and Blair remembered--how did he ever forget in between--that Naomi was never, *never* what anyone expected. He was going to have to explain--

"What *is* that?"

And so Blair explained. It was so disorienting, trying to remember what was normal, trying to be cool about everything (because he was always cool about everything), trying not to freak even though Jim was looking at him in almost fearful bewilderment.

The explanation only increased the bewilderment. "'Bad vibes,'" Jim repeated. Blair had not thought this out; he had not warned Naomi, he had not warned Jim. Why *would* he? Both of them were obvious and transparent and *normal* to him.

"Yeah, the bad vibes." He cringed inwardly. "I forgot to tell her....we need to have a talk."

And then Naomi was there, teasing and gentle and joyous. She was the same as always, and part of Blair relaxed with the comfort of it even as some other part of him resurrected the anxiety that had been haunting him for days. Naomi was optimistic and informal and so very, very vivid. Her cheerful invasion would be a lot for Jim to swallow, especially here in his home....where she had already been moving the furniture around. And ooo, hey, Jim was already looking a little freaked.

Crap. Crap.

Jim sneezed again. Blair felt like the world was imploding. "Mom, the sage is too much. It's a sentinel thing."

"Oh, that's awful." She looked at Jim sympathetically, but then spoiled the effect by proving that her sympathy was for something completely incomprehensible. "How do you stay clean?"

Jim seemed caught between confused and slightly affronted. Personal questions. In the first four minutes. Oh, god. His answer was short, but marginally polite. "I shower."

When Jim's beeper went off, it was almost a relief. Blair wanted--badly--to sit down and talk very carefully to both of them. Clearly, a great deal about the situation needed to be fixed. As urgent as that talk was, though, the time out was a welcome reprieve. He could re-group. Rethink, even. Everything would be all right.

"Mom--I'm sorry. We've got to go."

"Oh, cop stuff?"

"Yeah," Blair said, going over to retrieve his jacket. He wanted to get out the door before he had to explain anything about where they were going.

"You know, it's so ironic. I've spent so much time demonstrating against the tyranny of the pigs and now... oh, I'm sorry. No offense intended."

"I hear that," Jim said, looking a little stunned. "Let's go. Come on."

"I'll get my coat."

"Ma, you can't come."

"Why not?"

Blair smiled gently. "You don't work for the police department. They're a little picky about that."

"Oh, well, then we won't tell them. Blair, I haven't seen you in six months."

"Yeah, I know, but Mom..."

"Is there something dangerous about this?"

"No, no, it's just routine."

"Well, then why can't I come?" She looked at him with hopeful innocence. And why not? Policy for policy's sake was just tyranny after all. "Jim?"

"Naomi, I'm sorry. Not this time."

"Look, Mom, we'll be back soon, I promise. And we'll get together, we'll talk, I promise."

In the hallway, Jim managed a teasing smile. "You know, Blair, Naomi's a very attractive woman. I never would have guessed she's so...young."

Blair wasn't sure whether to laugh or shudder. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait a minute. That's my mom! Take a cold shower, man."

Jim sighed. "You know, I might as well have left you there. I can take you to the meeting place, but not much after that."

"No," Blair said. He swallowed hard. "I'll stay as close as I can."

"Chief, I--"

"It's your job. I get that. It's ok."

***

He wasn't prepared for the woman who got into the truck and pointed a gun at him. All things considered, it was a hell of a thing not to be prepared for. Blair kept his mouth shut and obeyed, keeping himself from freaking out by clinging to the fact that they weren't dead yet, and, since Jim was still in the game, they might get to stay that way.

Not dead.

After all, this was Jim's job, and he was very, very good at his job. Jim, in the cab of the semi in Blair's rear view mirror, might be driving badly, but he sure as hell wasn't panicking.

Millennia later, when he finally did see Jim again, Blair was dimly surprised to realize that he wasn't hysterical. Jim looked calm and a little irritated, but Blair himself wasn't weeping with terror. Shock, he decided. He was in shock and Jim was just crazy, because surely no sane person would be standing here looking calm and slightly irritated while the madwoman with the icy eyes and the gun snarled, " I thought you said this bozo could drive."

"He's kind of rusty, that's all." Deluca said, and Blair shuddered inwardly. The man was totally unconvincing. Anyone could see through him--

"Actually," Jim said, and *god* he was transparently floundering, too. They were as good as dead, all three of them-- "if you'd given me a chance, instead of pulling this stunt, I would have told you here's your guy, not me." Jim seized Blair's shoulder and thrust him forward.

Blair was beyond surprise, but not beyond horror. This delaying tactic couldn't buy them very much time. When the hell had *that* become the best Jim could come up with? Although perhaps that was unfair. It was just supposed to be a meeting, a chance to look Jim over before hiring him. Nothing was supposed to happen today, certainly nothing involving Blair.

"So what do we need you for?" The gun waving woman's accomplice asked. As far as Blair could tell, it uncovered a huge hole in Jim's slim tissue of lies.

Jim was back on his game though. He glowered a little, unafraid and faintly hostile. "We're a team. Either you buy both of us or nothing."

Impossibly, the gangsters seemed to buy this. Blair's panic, which had started to give way in the face of Jim's certainty, began to rally. The issue was not so much getting out of the warehouse alive, but having to convince people he was some kind of criminal. "You'll have to split your end," the blond said.

"Forget about it. Equal shares or we don't do it," A tiny surge of triumph leaped in Blair. They could get out of this *alive*. Later--later, later--they could figure out how to get the car thieves some other way.

"Done," the woman said. "You'll start tomorrow."

***

Incomprehensibly, Jim actually seemed to think that Blair was going undercover with him. Hell, that Blair was able to go under cover with him. "What was with the attitude back there, Chief? You almost got us talked out of the case."

Blair's protests that that had been the idea only earned him an uncomprehending stare.

"Jim, I can't go under cover."

"Why not?"

"I'm not a cop. I don't have the training."

Jim frowned for a moment. "Yeah," he conceded. "There'll be some things we'll have to work around."

Bewildered, Blair let the conversation slide until they were back at he station. While he was still trying to get his head around the idea of under cover--let alone articulate the specifics of why it was a bad idea--an unexpected ally appeared in the form of Simon Banks.

"Look, there is no way I can sign off on this. I mean, what if something goes wrong? Blair doing this kind of undercover...He's listed as support staff. The department could be in all kinds of hot water."

Jim didn't see this as an impediment any more than Blair's complete ignorance and lack of experience. "He'll sign a waiver, sir."

"This is a horrible idea. I'm not ready. I'll get us both killed."

"What are you talking about? You think on your feet, you lie beautifully, and you notice details. You make half the cops I've worked with look like dog catchers."

"I'm gonna be alone in a ten-ton truck with some psycho named Gary with a loaded gun!"

"I'll be with you the whole time backing you up. Now I need you on this one. You back out now and the whole thing is over. That's it; it's done. They'll figure out something's going on; they're going to close down shop. This may be our only chance to get Petrie."

Simon looked at Blair and sighed and Blair had the horrible feeling that he was going to lose. "Aw, hell, Jim's right. Look, we didn't expect it to go down this way, but that's exactly the situation. It's still your choice though."

"Good," Blair said. "I choose to live."

"Ok. Someone else might have something to say about that though," Simon said.

"Huh?"

"Your mom is in my office and I think she may be about to kill you."

"My mom--"

"Apparently she followed you. To the meet. That's why I'm here so late. She called in demanding to talk to me to report your kidnapping."

"Oh, crap."

The scene in Simon's office was about as horrible as Blair might have imagined, if it was the sort of thing he'd given any thought to, made worse by the fact that Simon had tried to explain—-not, Blair conceded that he'd probably had a lot of choice. Naomi's response was predictable. "You are a guide, Blair, not some kind of storm trooper. I mean, clearly there's a lot more going on here than simply looking after a sentinel. I mean, the next thing I know you're going to be parading around here in a blue uniform and jack boots."

He would have liked to have had this conversation away from Jim and Simon. He would have *liked* to have skipped this conversation all together. Now that it had started, though, he had to set his boundaries or they would be going on around this for the next four or five years. "Well, you know what, Mom? If I do, that's my choice."

"Make another choice! Blair this is dangerous. That woman had a gun--"

"Mrs. Sandburg--" Simon said a little desperately.

"Ms," Naomi snapped.

"Ms. It's true, Blair hasn't been here very long, but he is a very competent professional. Your son has helped us solve some very difficult cases and I consider him part of the team."

"They need me on this case."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry, but you're not cut out for this kind of work."

"Mom--" Blair said. But he could not go on. It was appalling to be pushed around by his mother in front of Jim and Jim's boss. The idea of telling her she had no right to any involvement in his life was unthinkable, though. Even assuming it would work. This was *Naomi* who had not spoken to (and been disinherited by) her parents for eight years because while there were lots of things a nice girl from Long Island could get away with in 1969, having a baby out of wedlock and not giving it away wasn't one of them. Who had worked a crappy job as a fry cook for two years during the eighties because there weren't any other jobs and Blair needed to eat. Who had always listened when he needed to talk and never lied to him about anything, and if mysteriously she was suddenly turning into some psycho Stepford-mom...well, he still couldn't tell her to go to hell.

All of that didn't leave him a whole lot to say.

"Well," Simon said, "That's not entirely true. I've gotten to know Blair over the past couple of months and though we don't always see eye to see, his enthusiasm is kind of, uh, refreshing. And I trust him. If he decides to finish this case I'll back him up 100 percent."

Blair tried not to gape at Simon. Mostly, he'd thought Simon hadn't noticed him...except maybe to be relieved that he wasn't Brackett.

"Blair?"

"I'm going to do my job, Naomi."

There was a long brittle silence, and then she said, "I hear that."

"Do you?"

Naomi nodded, glanced once more at Simon, collected her purse and went to the door.

For a moment Blair just stood there. The silence sort of rang in his ears and he felt a bit distanced. Somewhere, he knew that he'd just agreed to go under cover in a car theft ring in order to make a point to his mother--not the most mature thing to do....

On the other hand, sooner or later Jim would have talked him into it anyway. Blair looked up at Simon. "Uh. Thanks, man."

Simon shrugged.

In the elevator, Jim passed Blair a sad, sympathetic look and nodded for Blair to get out with his mom at the floor for the municipal parking lot. Blair shot him a sad, apologetic look back and followed Naomi to her car. Neither of them spoke until they were moving, when Naomi asked quietly, "What, exactly, is a major crime?"

Blair did not want to answer that. Which, really, was too bad, because not answering it would only make things worse. "In Cascade...unusual murder cases. Some kidnappings. Hate crimes. Um, carjacking rings." He swallowed. "Look, mom. I know when you see cops all you think of is riot gear and keeping files on protest groups and the FBI infiltrating peace organizations in the sixties...but there's more to it than that."

"And the 'more to it' is very dangerous."

"What happened tonight--that's not usual--"

"What *is* usual?"

"We, um, we go to crime scenes. Afterward, you know. Like forensics."

"Forensics?"

"Like--police scientists. Fingerprints and stray hairs and carpet fibers. Sentinels are very good at finding evidence other people miss. They can give preliminary guess about what a sample might be...sometimes they can find information that can't be observed or cataloged any other way. And sometimes sentinels conduct...interviews."

"Interrogations." Naomi gave the word Blair had tried to skip over.

"Mom, we're not talking about rubber hoses here! And the people who come to the attention of Major Crimes--they're not conscientious objectors who won't pay the military proportion of their taxes! We're talking about people who might be murders or rapists or--or kidnappers and we have to know if they are telling the truth."

Naomi was silent. Blair looked out the window.

"Sweetie, I just don't understand. With your background, I always assumed you'd wind up working for some environmental auditor firm or the EPA."

"Yeah, I kind of expected something like that, too."

"I mean, you never wanted to be a cop. A fireman, for a while, but...Oh Blair, did you?" She sounded slightly horrified, probably as much because she hated to think she could miss something so important as because the job itself freaked her out.

"No," Blair said firmly. "I never thought about it."

"Well, then why? There are so many other things you could do."

"Mom, it's not just governments and corporations and classes of people who hurt other people. Sometimes individuals are dangerous, too." Blair thought, vividly, of Lee Brackett and sagged inside. Brackett was as much a product of the system that had trained and deployed him as of his own personal cruelty. Chasing down the criminal individuals would not clean the system of the dysfunctions that made people like that in the first place. His mother was right, to fight the evils of the world where they lived. He knew that. And yet--and yet-- "There is *nothing* like that feeling you get when you have helped stop someone from really hurting someone else. It's a wonderful thing, and it's a good thing to be part of--" Blair stopped, remembering that moment when he'd watched Jim sign Brackett's letter of dismissal. That had been the first time, really. The most important time. The actual cases they had worked on since had been a kind of shadow of that crucial success. "Helping people. It's...it's Jim's job. And it's good work. Important work."

"What about your work?" Naomi asked.

"My work is to keep my partners healthy and effective. And I'm...good at that, actually. I like working with someone and really getting to know them and helping them solve their problems. I like that."

"So this is what you want?"

"Yes," yes, oh god, yes. "This is what I want."

"I hear you baby."

They got to the loft only moments after Jim. Starving, Blair emptied out half the fridge and made them all sandwiches. Blair had the tongue, but Jim ham and cheese and Naomi hummus and sprouts. They all ate with a concentration that gave them a way to avoid talking to each other. There had been enough of that for a while.

They put Naomi in Blair's room and made up the couch for Blair. Blair was exhausted but completely wired. The undercover assignment was a small knot of fear in his stomach. The fight with his mother was a wad of horror in his heart. He had never won a fight with her, except when she relented. He had appeared to have settled this one--at least she seemed resigned--but Naomi didn't let things go lightly.

No one, as far as Blair knew, had ever won a fight with his mother.

He wasn't a little boy any more. He was twenty-five years old and gainfully employed. All right, he was living in his sentinel's spare room...but he wasn't a child.

And--hell--that wouldn't make any difference.

He hadn't wanted to think about it, what his working with the police would mean to his mother. Being part of the establishment. Sacrificing his freedom and creativity to the establishment. She had to see this as Blair wasting his talents.

His first protest against the 'Tyranny of the Pigs', at least as far as he could remember, had been about 1978 in some dirty little town in New Jersey. They'd been protesting the shooting of a fifteen year old prostitute by a group of policemen. Naomi had stood on the hood of a small green Ford and talked for a long time about what the American people ought to be able to expect from their law enforcement, and the unpunished, unexplained, and unapologized murder of a child wasn't it.

The news was always full of stories like that. Always. For years, Blair had read the news and winced at the horrors that never stopped happening, no matter how many protests Naomi went to, no matter how many petitions she organized. Even later, when he was a graduate student and didn't have time to get so involved, he'd always remembered.

He hadn't wanted to think about what Naomi would say once she realized that he had thrown in his lot with the people who used tear gas and rubber bullets to break up peaceful demonstrations. It hardly even seemed applicable, once he'd gotten a look at Jim's job. Jim wasn't any of the things Naomi was afraid of. Blair had been to murder scenes. He'd heard Jim testify in court. He'd sat at lunch with Rafe and Brown and Taggart while they talked about an attempt a group of white supremacists made last spring to take over police headquarters and force the state to turn over two of their imprisoned members.

He was never going to get to sleep this way. Blair sighed silently and opened his eyes.

Jim was awake. Blair stared at the loft above him. He didn't see any movement, but he was sure all the same. Damn. Jim might be up there listening to Blair fret. Well, he could take care of that. Blair took a couple of deep breaths and concentrated on relaxing. Everything would sort it self out. Naomi would relent--Jim wasn't a monster, she would see that. And as for the danger--it might upset her, but his mother didn't believe in letting fear stop you from doing what was right or following your heart's desire. It would work out.

Everything would be fine....

Jim was still awake.

Slowly, Blair slid out from under the blanket and tiptoed toward the stairs. He listened for the sound of snores to prove him wrong or for Jim's soft request to be left alone.

Silence.

Jim was in the center of the bed, curled tightly into a ball, rigid and unmoving. Blair sat carefully on the side of the bed and said softly, "Hey."

Jim opened his eyes.

"Spiking?" The first, most obvious question.

Jim shook his head.

"Sick?"

"No." There was no chance of Jim just asking for help. Every time Blair thought things were getting better, they wound up playing this game again. Damn Brackett, Blair thought. The curse was so much a habit it was almost perfunctory. Damn Jim's father too; even the public schools gave sentinel children enough training that they were comfortable with talking about their senses, knew how to articulate their problems, and *expected*, when things were bad, to go and talk to their parents or their teachers or their guide.

Blair sighed and laid a hand on Jim's head. It was hard to go gently here. He wanted to demand to know what was wrong. He wanted to fix it. Now. He didn't have the patience for being a guide, not really.

"It's stupid," Jim whispered. "I know it's....I mean, she's your mother."

Oh. "You're having trouble having a stranger in your territory." Blair sighed again. He'd been worried about this, but every time he'd suggested putting Naomi in a hotel Jim had protested that you couldn't treat family that way, and that he could handle it. But Jim was barely in control of his senses and wasn't very comfortable in his environment yet. "I can't do anything about it until tomorrow." God. What was he going to say to her? She wouldn't understand that this had nothing to do with their disagreement.

Jim squirmed in the darkness and exhaled sharply. "It doesn't make any sense. I know who she is, but--I keep hearing someone in that room and all I can think is that it's not you."

Oh. God. Blair closed his eyes briefly. "Jim. She's not me. But she's not *him* either."

Jim turned over, fetching up facing away from Blair and out of reach. Blair took a couple of deep breaths. "Jim--"

"Don't suggest therapy again," Jim said, still facing the wall.

Oh. "Ok. Right. Um, why?"

"They'll just expect me to talk about it and then tell me that it's not my fault."

"Jim? Do you think it's your fault?"

"No! Of course not. He...."

Blair eased a little closer. "It's not your fault." He swallowed hard. "What he did had nothing to do with you. It was just him. Not everybody he worked with even survived."

"So, I'm lucky," Jim whispered bitterly.

"No. Maybe yes.... You were lucky to be so strong." He turned onto his knees and crawled closer so that he could lay a light hand on Jim's bare shoulder. "You weren't so isolated that nobody noticed what was going on or gave a damn.... You stopped him. You put him away, Jim. No bail. He's going away, and he won't hurt anyone else."

"Almost a shame. If he had a chance he might come after me again and then I could shoot him."

Blair's blood ran cold. "You're angry."

"You have no idea, Chief."

What could Blair say? That Jim should just get over it? That it was wrong to let yourself get eaten up by hate? That time would make it better? That Blair understood? He didn't, even though.... "I'm angry too," he whispered.

"It's been four months." Jim shifted and pulled his arms closer in. "I'm so tired of this...."

Lightly and slowly, Blair began to pet Jim's exposed shoulder. He moved patiently and rhythmically, the kind of move he'd use to put a housecat to sleep. "That's not so much time, Jim. I know you want to put all that behind you.... but you've been working on your senses and just. It takes time."

"I want my life back."

Blair bit his lip. "You mean from before you had the senses."

"Never mind. That's stupid. I know I can't--"

"No. We don't know how to turn them off. On purpose, anyway. I...I'm sorry." He choked on the lie. The only thing he wasn't sorry about was the senses. Jim was a sentinel; that was part of who Jim was. Blair didn't want him to be someone else.

Not that Blair's opinion mattered much. It was still taking almost all of Jim's energy and strength to cope with the senses, let alone with the senses on top of his history. Who was Blair to tell him he was *wrong* to feel overwhelmed and scared and exhausted. It was Jim who couldn't sleep because the tiny sounds of a middle-aged, female pacifist sleeping in the bedroom below had him on the edge of a panic attack. Really, in the face of that, what right did Blair have to tell him what to do or ask more of him then he'd already given?

Jim was completely still under Blair's hand, and it wasn't a good kind of still. He had told Jim once that sentinels and guides both needed the information touch provided. In Jim he felt fury and helplessness. "Please," he whispered. "Please, Jim, just give me a little more time. I know...it feels like it's been forever."

Jim turned then and pressed his forehead into Blair's knees. Blair wrapped his arms as far as he could around Jim's large shoulders and held him tightly. He slowed his own breathing and eased his left leg so it wouldn't cramp if this turned out to be a long wait. Amazing, really, how easy it suddenly was to be patient.

"Don't give up." It was so soft that Blair wasn't sure he'd really heard it until Jim added, "Please."

"No. Of course not. It's been so fast, and you're doing so well."

"You always say that." Jim's voice as a little stronger.

"It's true. Ask Jack how hard we thought it would be to settle you. Ask him how far ahead you are in the gym. If you don't believe me....He studies sentinels. He's talked to hundreds of them. Jim--I hadn't been with you for three weeks when we walked into a crime scene where three people had been killed and you--you *worked*. There was so much blood on the walls *I* wanted to be sick. I mean, if I had had any idea, I wouldn't have let you near it. And you just worked."

"You're kidding."

Blair swallowed, shying from the memory. That had been a hell of a morning. And it had led directly to his first car chase that afternoon. "Jim. It was that bad."

"Oh." He uncoiled slightly, and Blair loosened his grip. "You could have said."

"At the time, I was too nauseous to talk."

Jim chuckled softly. "Don't worry. You get used to it. Just remember, if you need to puke, don't contaminate evidence."

Blair laughed outright. "Thank you for that useful and practical advice. Jim. What do you need from me? How can we make this better?"

Jim turned his head away. For a moment, Blair was afraid that he wouldn't answer, but then he said, "Just...don't give up, Chief."

"Never even considered it."

It was a while before Jim fell asleep. Blair sat beside him until he did, hoping to give him something near to focus on so he wouldn't pay attention to the bedroom below.

***

The next morning, when Blair came out of the shower, Naomi was making mushroom omelets. Jim was on the bottom of the stairs putting on his shoes and casting hungry looks at the kitchen. Blair almost cheered. Something was going right for a change.

Naomi looked up from the stove. "Orange juice or milk?"

"Orange juice."

"So. Seeing anybody special these days, sweetie?" She scooped the omelet onto a plate and handed it to Blair.

"No," he said absently.

Naomi laughed. "Nobody special? Or too many to count?"

"Um, nobody at all."

Naomi leaned over him to pour the orange juice. "Sweetie? Are you all right?"

"Sure. Fine."

"It's just you haven't...I mean, you've had a pretty active social life since you were a teenager."

"I've been busy." Carefully, calmly, Blair did not look in Jim's direction. "I took the exam a whole term early. And then there was some training in order to work with Jim." He looked up at her innocently, willing her to accept the excuse, hoping she would not ask what *kind* of training. "There's been a lot to do."

Naomi looked doubtful. "You've been busy before--" Blair refused to look guilty. He had been busy. He had.

He shrugged. "Being a guide takes some...you know...settling in. So, are you going to see Wiggy and Frog while you're in town?"

"Well, I might have some extra time, since I got here early." The conversation drifted off to other old friends Naomi had in the area and Blair sighed with relief. He really, really did not want to have that conversation about his love life in front of Jim. Actually, he didn't want Naomi to know what was going on either. The truth was, while he *had* been incredibly busy, he could have made time to date. He had made time, in fact. In the beginning of December he had made time twice. At first he hadn't given any importance to the fact that Jim was grumpy and distracted all day and, when Blair had come home toward midnight, had been pale and quiet, jumping at small noises and unable to sit still. Then Blair came home from the second date to find Jim curled up on the couch with a headache so bad he couldn't open his eyes.

Blair hadn't gone out again.

It had been hard, figuring out what to do. Not being able to handle the idea of a guide dating was a sign of a seriously dysfunctional relationship. Sentinels tended to be controlling--possibly as a result of the chaos the sheer volume of sensory input constantly subjected them to. Sometimes they got a little possessive or insecure.

Sometimes the problem was more serious. It was easy, especially when one or both of the partners was socially isolated, for the sentinel-guide dyad to turn into something co-dependant or exploitive. It was something both halves of the partnership were expected to watch for. Jim freaking out every time Blair went out on a date was a very bad sign.

He had almost gone to Jack for help. He had almost tried to talk it out with Jim. He had even considered, briefly, having himself replaced as Jim's guide. Even if he could give up dating forever--even if he were willing to do that--it wouldn't have been a healthy solution. Sooner or later Jim was going to have to deal with Blair having a life beyond being a guide. Heck, sooner or later, he was going to have to start dating himself (after all, nobody could give it up forever). But for a little while....

After all that Jim had been through, needing the full attention of a competent guide was not out of line. Blair could not look at Jim's medical records and think that this neediness or anxiety was somehow 'inappropriate.' Jim was still recovering, still learning to have confidence in Blair's support. Blair was not about to sit him down and tell him he was going about it wrong.

Sooner or later things would have to change. Blair was not looking forward to the conversation where he explained that Jim was going to have to share. He wasn't even sure that was the best way to do it. Maybe they should just start double dating. Maybe it would be enough to just help Jim expand his social circle. Now that he wasn't suffering from ongoing emotional and physical abuse, Jim was starting to connect with his coworkers again. He'd even gone to visit some family members at the end of December. By spring, Jim might be ready to give Blair more space without any discussion or stress at all.

When Blair tuned into the conversation again, Naomi and Jim were talking about superfund site reclamation and forestry. They seemed to be getting along; apparently Jim was willing to share his guide with his mother, even if dating was probably still out. Inwardly, Blair gave a sigh of relief.

That morning there were more meetings at the PD. The task force had shrunk some since taking this new direction, and the other remaining members were mostly occupied with research on the major players. After that there was a meeting with an ADA about an old case of Jim's that was finally coming to trial. The way the lawyer looked at Jim gave Blair new hope for Jim's love life.

"So what's the deal?" Blair asked as soon as the conference room door was shut behind them.

"What deal?"

"What Deal? Ms. Sanchez. How could you *not* notice how she was looking at you." Jim frowned and Blair sighed, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. He was being as obvious as he knew how to be.

"What? Oh. No, it's not like that, Chief. I handed her a pair of hit men last winter. Well, I handed her one, then kind of rescued her when his brother tried to take her out." Jim grinned, looking so wonderfully smug and confident that Blair's breath caught. "Yeah, she thinks I walk on water, but it's not like *that*."

"If you say so. So where are we going now?"

"Stop by the morgue. Dan has a body he wants me to get a look at."

"Oh. How nice."

The body wasn't grisly or particularly horrifying. There was no blood. There were no exposed intestines. It was just dead. Blair made himself take a long look--for practice--and then stood half turned away with his arms folded. Fortunately, Jim didn't seem to need a lot of help. His gloved hands roved efficiently over the body with no sign of hesitation. He scanned every inch, smelled inside its mouth, searched the bag of personal effects Dan handed over. Blair tried not to watch, tried not to listen to the brief report Jim gave when he finished while Dan calmly--almost casually--took notes. And then they were leaving. Walking out the door. Standing in the hall. Finally, Blair checked in with himself to see what he was feeling and was surprised to find that it was mostly relief. He hadn't freaked. He hadn't puked. He hadn't embarrassed Jim. Apparently, he was doing ok.

Well. Fine, then. Why not? It wasn't like death was contagious. It wasn't like American mortuary rituals were any worse or more unnatural than the ones Hal used to go on and on about in intro anthro. It wasn't like freaking out would have done that poor dead person any good. Blair could cope with this. Good.

Actually--very good. They had lunch with Naomi next on the schedule. He was going to have to eat, so it was just as well that he could cope.

They met Blair's mother at an Italian restaurant a couple of blocks from the PD. Blair and Naomi both had large and extravagant Mediterranean salads with fresh cheese and olives. Jim had been leaning toward the pasta primavera with shrimp until Naomi had brought up the living conditions and diet of farm-raised shrimp, after which Jim switched to chicken. Naomi had the grace to look embarrassed and change the subject after that. Or tried to. Conversation kept falling flat and Naomi seemed unusually quiet and unhappy.

Blair didn't need any hints to be able to guess why, but there was nothing he could say, not when he and Jim were planning to meet Gary and Francine right after lunch. What could he say? It's not so bad? There's nothing to worry about? Naomi didn't even know they were planning to spend the afternoon undercover trying to steal luxury cars...and she sure as hell hadn't met their two heavily armed new friends. Blair wasn't sure which one of them was out right crazy and which one was just very, very dangerous.

He didn't remember a lot of lunch and he was sweating by the time Jim pulled up at the warehouse for their appointment.

Francine had selected an area just south of the horse track and the fair grounds. Until about ten years before the short stretch of Gazi Highway between there and a cluster of small housing developments had been mostly trees and marsh, but recently a high end mall and an upscale office park had gone in. Now doctor's offices and quirkily decorated chain restaurants popular for business lunches were springing up.

Blair resolved to keep his mouth shut, going for sullen and suspicious. That had to be a more useful vibe than disoriented and sacred shitless. He glowered a little, making himself live with the dark silence when he and Gary drove out to pick up the rented truck.

Blair waited with the truck, driving a square pattern at the center of Francine's hunting territory. The call came, finally, on the cell phone Gary had given him, and Blair turned toward the rendezvous point.

He arrived only a few seconds ahead of Gary. Smoothly, neatly (really, you kind of had to admire Francine) Gary pulled a white rolls into the back of the truck and Blair hopped out to give him a hand with the door.

"Your fucking idiot partner is playing games!" Gary snarled as he hopped out of the cargo box.

Something in Blair coalesced into steel. The fear seemed to drain out of him and into the ground. Being afraid of getting shot or messing up Jim's bust...he had no idea what he was doing and actually fear had been working for him as a reasonable response. But. If this jumpy, hostile nutcase was actually a threat to Jim, then there wasn't any question of screwing things up or wondering what to do. The only thing *to* do was figure out a way to take this trigger-happy loony apart. "Yeah, right," Blair said coldly.

"Just get in the truck and drive. No funny business."

"No problem, man." Gary fumed all the way back to the warehouse. Unsure what to do, Blair just leaned against the door of the cab, pretending to be unconcerned. Fortunately, Francine and Jim arrived only a couple of minutes later. Francine drove like a maniac--she pulled up at fifty miles an hour and squealed to a flashy halt. It was a wonder the convertible hadn't beaten them. Jim looked like he was all right. Whatever was going on, it wasn't completely out of hand yet. Blair stepped back, staying away from the argument and out of Gary's line of sight. "Since when do we stop to hold the hand of the god-damn marks! Are we playing nursemaid here, or what?" Blair wondered what the hell had happened.

"Cool it," Francine said. "The important thing is--"

"I'm telling Petrie I'm through! I can't watch your back if I got nobody watching mine."

"Just relax," Francine said, but Gary was ignoring her.

"He should've let the old guy drop.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. I'm not into killing on the job here, pal." Jim seemed remarkably cool. He was so convincing that Blair was leaning toward believing him and he had no idea what was going on. He felt himself relax a little. "I do a little time, that's an accepted risk. But I'm not doing life."

"That's part of the territory!" Gary snarled. "Anyway, on this crew, one strike and you're out."

"It is not your decision, Gary."

The argument went on for a few minutes longer, but Blair could tell that Jim had already won. Francine would back Jim just because Gary was pissing her off. Finally Gary stormed off in a huff and Francine went into the office, leaving Jim and Blair to unload the trailer and take it back to the rental place. By the time they returned to the warehouse Gary had reappeared. He was searching the Mercedes. "Any problems?" he snapped.

"No, everything's fine," Jim said. He was a little too polite, just enough to be irritating. Blair wished he wouldn't push it, but that was just his general anxiety about armed criminals surfacing.

"Come back tomorrow afternoon." He watched as Jim and Blair started for the door, then climbed out of the car and headed for the office. When he disappeared, Jim tugged Blair aside and motioned him to be quiet. Blair raised his eyebrows, wondering how you asked what was going on without making any noise. Jim tugged his ear and pointed in the direction Gary had gone. It took a few minutes to find some cover that satisfied Jim. He motioned Blair to hold still and then settled in to listen.

It was, as far as Blair could tell, a nice, clean, focused zone. He was torn between wanting to watch Jim and wanting to be on the look out for any interruption. Blindly, almost awkwardly, Jim reached out his hand. Blair caught it and squeezed reassuringly. After a few seconds, Jim whispered, "Gary is in the bathroom. Francine is on the phone with Petrie....They're arguing." Blair kneaded the cool hand.

"Damn. He wants her to shut it down," Jim breathed. "No, it's ok." There was a long silence, then Jim said. "That's it. Well, things are--wait--she's on the phone again." But this call was to her hair dresser and the next to her bookie. Neither particularly helpful. When she was finished on the phone, they waited a few minutes more to see if she would leave and they could take a look at the office for themselves, but Jim said she was settling down to eat a sandwich so they gave up and headed home. "So your mom comes into town every year?" Jim said casually, just like they were having a normal conversation and hadn't spent the day with Bonnie and Clyde lifting cars.

"Um. Yeah. Sometimes in the summer, too."

"So she's already done all the tourist stuff."

"Huh?"

"Looking for ways to pass the time this weekend."

"Don't sweat it. If we get cabin fever she had friends in town. We don't have to entertain her every minute."

Jim seemed to think about that. "So...you're from here? Originally?"

"Nah. We just lived here while I went to high school. Well. You know. Naomi got on this 'stable environment' kick. And the economy wasn't real great in the 80's." Blair frowned, remembering that during the 80's Jim was deployed overseas. "The world got very...isolated and dull. The Regan years. Lots of communes shut down, the only protests that ever drew a crowd were anti-nuke, there were yuppies everywhere you looked."

"Your mom must have hated it," Jim said dryly. Blair wondered if he was being mocked.

"We had a little apartment in a converted house not far from the university." He smiled. "The owner was this little old lady...she was tired of her place being trashed by undergrads. She let us have it cheap. It was tiny, but...." It had had real (if battered) hardwood floors. The ceiling in Blair's little room had slanted at odd angles and there'd been a miniature balcony out the window.

"Why Cascade?"

Blair shrugged. "It's where we were. Mom knew some people. It had a good school system." Blair sighed. It was all about ten years ago, now. "My junior year, they had advanced placement courses. And they had an arrangement with Rainier; we could take one class at the college each semester for free. Only a couple of us actually did it. I took trig. And intro anthropology. And intro psych."

"Trig?" Jim asked.

"The guy teaching trig at my high school was a maniac. A tenured maniac. I walked half a mile three times a week in the rain for night classes on the far side of campus in order to escape him. Real piece of work. He hated girls, musicians, male cheerleaders, anybody in the band, and geeks."

"Geeks? And he was teaching *math*?"

Despite himself, Blair laughed. "Now that you mention it, he'd have been much happier in some other job."

Blair talked about his high school all the way home. Somehow, with Jim, the stories were funny...although, *god*, those stories had been tragic at the time. High school always was, he supposed. And really, how could you take it seriously....But somehow his car breaking down on the way to the prom and that mess in chemistry with the sulfur, and being in love with Penny Joseph who hadn't even known he existed and all the rest of it...hadn't seemed funny then. Before he knew it they were home. And--weirdly--everything felt ok. It was like any normal day and Jim hadn't come close to having his head blown off by Gary-the-trigger-happy-gun-nut or letting some old man die....Damn. Jim had told him what had happened on the way back from dropping off the semi. All things considered, Blair was better off not thinking about it. He tried to recapture the mood of the trip home. "So where did you go to high school?"

"Saint...Mary's...." Jim froze for a moment and then charged up the remaining stairs two at a time. "Something's wrong with your mom--"

"What--" Blair started, but Jim already had his key in the lock. He threw the door open to reveal Naomi sitting in the center of the living room in full lotus.

Jim gaped. "What...?"

Blair sagged, the alarm and confusing dissipating as quickly as it had risen. "It's ok. She's meditating."

"Her heart's barely beating!"

Blair motioned him to keep it down. "She's really good at it."

While Blair shut the door and took off his jacket, Jim stared at Naomi, steady and motionless on the floor. "I don't--" at Blair's shush, Jim lowered his voice. "*I* meditate, and I don't...." He gestured helplessly.

"You're not very good at yet."

Jim considered her for a moment more, then crept around her and up the stairs. Blair took off his jacket and went to the kitchen to see what was around for dinner. Cucumber and onions were marinating in good vinegar and olive oil. It was strong and they couldn't store leftovers in the fridge...but it might be good for Jim to eat something aggressive. There was catfish in the fridge which hadn't been there before. A compromise between the carnivore and the bunny rabbit--thank you, mom. Grilled vegetables from the health food store on Walker St. Blair was starving just thinking about it.

Jim was coming down the stairs, arguing with Simon on the phone. It reminded Blair that they weren't really seeing enough of Jim's boss or coworkers. He wondered if there was any research out there on the isolating effects of being undercover. He wondered if he ought to quit worrying so much.

Jim made noises about being good and following the rules to Simon and rang off. "Has she said anything?" he asked, looking at Naomi.

"Nope."

"She's been like that since we came in."

Before Blair could finish reassuring Jim that this wasn't abnormal or dangerous behavior, Naomi was back. She stood up and stretched, and Jim stared his jaw hanging slack. Thoroughly squicked, Blair punched him in the shoulder. "Cut that out."

"What?" Jim asked stupidly.

Blair wondered what his mother's pheromones were like, to get this kind of reaction from a man who hadn't even thought about dating for a year. Then he winced, wishing he could erase ever having even thought that. Yuck. "Don't do that," he murmured. "Mom? You hungry?"

"Oh, I'm famished," she said, coming to join them.

She apologized again for loosing her cool and going all 'supermom.' Her self image didn't include being either controlling or fearful. Blair could understand that, but he was having enough trouble managing Jim and Jim's job. His mom being all weird was just that tiny bit too much more.

They started dinner. If they broiled the fish it would only take a few minutes. Everything else was pretty much finished. Jim peeked at the cucumbers and onions and then looked at Blair worriedly. "No problem," Blair mouthed.

There was a knock the door. "Are you expecting anybody, Mom?" Blair asked as Jim went to open the door.

The door flew open and Gary barreled in. His gun was out and pointed at Jim's stomach. "We've got to talk, Sport."

Francine followed, not visibly armed but the look in her eyes was almost as scary as a weapon would be. Blair would have swallowed, but his mouth was completely dry.

Jim took a slow step backwards and said steadily, "Take it easy with that thing."

Gary was nearly foaming at the mouth. Jim's calm seemed to almost piss him off more. "You've been watching us," he snarled.

"You're paranoid, man." This was not the tack Blair would have taken, but he kept his mouth shut and stood very still. He remembered, dimly, that he was trying to project fearless and irritated, so he attempted a scowl.

"Better paranoid than dead. You left the warehouse right after we finished the job. And I saw you drive off only a half-hour ago."

Blair's heart sank. Well. That was true, wasn't it? He wondered how Jim was going to reasonable their way out of this one and if he should be looking around for something heavy to hit Gary with. And then Naomi stepped forward and chirped earnestly, "They were with me. I picked them up. We were all going to dinner and I have the bigger backseat."

Blair tried not to gape. Naomi was smiling. She looked pleasant and polite. 'I'm going to get my mother killed,' Blair thought wonderingly. And then his mouth took off on its own: "Yeah, if we would have known you guys were hungry, we would have invited you. It'd be nice to get to know you better."

Naomi looked at him in surprise. "Would it?"

Francine still looked unhappy, but now she looked unhappy with Gary. "Oh, come on, Gary, we're all on the same team here." Gary waved the gun at Naomi. He was still angry, and she had gotten in his way with that alibi. "What about her? Where does she fit in?"

Naomi with a crazy thug waving a gun in her face turned to be exactly the same person as Naomi with a cop carrying her out of a sit-in; filled with loathing, but ruthlessly polite. "I'm his mother," she said nicely.

"Don't be flip with me, lady," Gary snapped and Blair realized that he thought she was lying. That pretty much put a pin an any ideas Blair might have had, but while Gary was distracted by his hostility Jim sprang. Before Blair could blink, Jim was holding the gun and Gary was pinned to the floor. Gary laughed bitterly. "Well. I guess now we find out the truth, don't we?"

Jim shook him. "The truth is I don't like people busting into my apartment with guns and bad manners." He released Gary and stood up. Furious and slightly scornful, he ejected the clip and handed the empty gun back, which only seemed to make Gary angrier. They were both on edge now. Blair liked Jim better calm. "He could have just killed you, Gary," Francine snapped. "What more proof do you want?"

Jim stepped back slightly and looked magnanimous. "What do you say we start fresh?"

Gary looked for one to another, frustrated and enraged. Blair almost felt sorry for him; after all, he was *right*, they *had* been listening, it *was* a setup. But Gary stormed out and the dangerous moment was over.

Francine smiled apologetically. She looked, actually, like she'd been having a pretty good time, except for her impatience with Gary. "Um. Look. I'm sorry, guys. We'll see you tomorrow, ok?"

"We'll be there." Jim said.

Naomi smiled politely, "Nice meeting you."

"Yeah." With one last, bewildered look at Naomi, Francine left.

The silence was ringingly loud and very welcome. Blair considered fainting. Or maybe taking a break to puke.

"So." Naomi said at last. "What, ah, was that all about?"

"That would be our case," Blair whispered, unable to look at her.

"The, ah, carjackers?"

"Yeah. Them."

Naomi looked at the closed door. "If you know who they are, why don't you just arrest them?"

Good question. Wonderful question. "We want their boss," Jim said. "The guy pulling the strings from out of town. These are just the little fish."

"Oh. So you want to get close to them." She glanced at Blair and visibly collected herself. "Should we have invited them to dinner?"

Blair choked.

Jim looked unhappily at the door. "How the hell they find out where we live?"

"You know," Naomi said slowly, "that was kind of fun."

Blair choked again. "What?"

Naomi's smile was expanding. "You know. Keeping your cool, not blowing your cover. Very exciting." Blair buried his face in his hands, but Naomi didn't seem to notice. "Well, let's get dinner moving. Jim, you set the table."

They talked cop all during dinner. Mostly it was stuff they'd done with forensics. Every time Jim seemed to forget himself and try to slip a car chase into the conversation, Blair gently kicked him. There were limits on how much he was willing to share with his mother, no matter how receptive she seemed. They talked until nearly eleven, then Naomi headed into bed and Blair made up the couch. Jim--

Jim was still sitting at the table. Still, but not zoned. Blair watched him for half a minute, then went off to brush his teeth and get ready for bed. When he got back, Jim was sitting at the table, but now his gun was laid out in front of him.

Damn.

"Hey," he said softly, not sure if he should approach.

Jim nodded, but didn't look up.

Blair glanced at the closed door to his room and came a little closer to Jim.

"Talk to me."

Jim shook his head, anger flashing there, and hurt. "You know...you read about those...personality disorders people like me get. I can still..." Jim swallowed and tried again. "They came here, into my *home*, they pulled a gun on us, on your mother--"

"And now you have a quiet minute to deal with that?" Blair suggested.

"I can still *smell* them. They were...in my...home. Chief--"

"Ok. I got it." Blair laid a hand on Jim's shoulder, and when he didn't pull away, leaned against his side. "It's ok."

"I'm losing my mind, here, Chief--"

"No. You're not."

"Blair--"

"No. You are not. Your response is completely normal. People waving guns and threatening you burst into your home--"

"I'm losing my mind. You can't say this is a reasonable--"

"It is. It is. It's a reasonable reaction to the input you're receiving. You *can* smell them. It's not your imagination. You are not developing an emotional problem, you're reacting proportionally to a particularly vivid and legitimately dangerous experience." Jim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You're ok," Blair promised him. "You're ok."

"Every once in a while, I can hear Adrian downstairs. He throws a tantrum every time somebody touches his desk. Paranoid. Hysterical....Blair, I can't stop listening for them. This is territorial sentinel bullshit, and I can't turn it off."

"You *can't* think this is the same thing! Geez. You are not Adrian. He has a lot of strikes against him even on top of--"

"And I don't?"

Blair closed his teeth hard and thought for a moment. "Jim, I'd know if you were...losing it. Do you trust me?" He waited for answer, but Jim stared resolutely at the closed front door. "Right," Blair said, trying to conceal his own disappointment, which wasn't important anyway. "We'll talk to Jack tomorrow."

Jim's head snapped up and looked at him hard. "It's not that I don't trust you," Jim said softly. "But I think you're too...attached to admit it to either one of us if I were getting out of control."

Surprised, Blair smiled. "Yeah. Damn right, I'm attached." And finally, finally, Jim seemed to know that. The first research Jack Kelso had done when he came to Rainier had shown that the greatest predictor of sentinel health and lifespan was how much they thought their guide *liked* them. If Jim knew--really knew--that Blair cared, his chances had increased dramatically.

"What?" Jim asked.

Blair smiled and shook his head. "Jim, you're fine. Yeah, you're...alarmed. You feel invaded. But this is not Joel leaving his coffee on your desk, which you find annoying. This is two people showing up at our front door who will--will--kill us if they have *any* idea what we're really up to. You can't stop listening for them? Good. Because they may come back. Listen. Set the alarm. Sleep with your gun beside the bed. Hell, take us all to a hotel under an assumed name."

Jim blinked at him. "You're not scared of them," he said. "I can smell it."

"You're not scared of them, either. You're scared of you." He would have gone on, but Jim flinched slightly, so Blair got quiet to give him some time.

"Ok," Jim said, at last. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Slowly, Jim got to his feet and put his gun away.

"Do you want to wash the floor where they were standing?"

Jim scowled. "I can handle it."

"Ok. Do you think you can sleep? Or do you want some tea?"

Jim softened slightly. "I'm ok. I just...."

"It's ok."

"Yeah. It's ok. Thanks, Chief."

The next morning they had breakfast with Naomi and then headed out to meet Francine and Gary. On their way out the door, Naomi called, "Have fun with the criminals." Blair met her eyes. She was hiding worry under her humor. Blair felt the world was a very surreal place.

"Remember," Jim said. "We don't know what they're going to tell us today."

"Well, yeah," Blair said. "I was thinking I *wouldn't* tell Francine what you overheard with your super hearing." He frowned, thinking about Francine. "You know, she's not that bad for a car thief." "Well, maybe you should get to know her better."

"What?" Jim couldn't have just suggested what it sounded like he suggested.

"Well, your mom's been urging you to date."

"Ha, ha. Very funny." But Jim only looked like he was half joking. "Oh, come on! I can't--can't--"

"Hey, man, nobody's asking you to compromise your high level of standards. It's just that the more information we have, the closer we get to nailing Petrie. Give it a try. Talk to her."

"Talk to her."

"Yeah. Talk to her."

Blair entered the office alone, wondering if he was crazy. But as jumpy as he felt, Francine didn't seem to see anything wrong. She waved him to a chair and said amiably, "Most people lose their appetite when they're angry. I eat." She pulled a salad and a cranberry muffin out of the tiny refrigerator behind the desk.

"You're angry? If I did anything--"

She sighed. "No, no. It's not you." She frowned. "Look, I'm real sorry about last night. Gary can be a real hard-ass, you know, but that's also what makes him useful." She waited for Blair's forgiving nod. "How's your mom?"

"Oh, her? Don't worry about her. She's used to this stuff. My dad used to run contraband from state to state. My grandfather was a rumrunner. There's a rumor he used to work for old Joe Kennedy." He imagined his very proper, very formal grandparents as hardened criminals, and weirdly the image sort of worked. "Kind of a family tradition, huh?"

"I guess you could say it's in the blood." Blair tried to feel like the kind of person who drove trucks full of hot VCRs for a living. But really how could you tell? Naomi was apparently believable as some kind of gun moll or something, and Francine seemed just like any of a dozen corporate executives who worked down town. "What?" Francine asked.

"I was just wondering... You don't seem like the type of person to be in this line of work."

"Neither do you."

Ah. So much for his convincing attitude.

Francine smiled. "You know, it's weird. It's like a rush, you know. It's like driving a fast car, or bungee jumping from a helicopter."

"You've done that?" Never mind the helicopter, he couldn't imagine why people bungee jumped off of anything. Not even after he'd seen "Land Divers of Melanesia."

"I guess you could say I'm what they call an adrenaline junkie. I love that feeling when you're taking the big risk."

Crazy, Blair decided. She's completely crazy. No matter how nice she seems; don't forget that. They talked for a little while longer, until a phone call came in. Apparently it was what Francine was waiting for, because she sent him out to round up Gary and Jim for a meeting.

Gary tried to follow them when they left the warehouse. Jim lost him and then headed back to the PD. Francine had announced that they would go after the Lamborghini tomorrow. Jim was thrilled. This was their chance to get Petrie, much sooner than he'd hoped. Blair, who had heard the plan Jim had in mind on the way...wasn't entirely thrilled. Not entirely. Although, the way Jim described it there shouldn't be any risk.

"He's going to be in a hurry to unload that Lamborghini. He's going to want to shut Francine down and get out of town. We'll offer him as much money as he can expect to get anywhere else. Our buyer will be somebody his people already know. I mean, I don't think he's going to have any other choice but to take this deal."

"Our buyer?" Simon asked, surprised. "Who do these guys know besides you two?"

Blair glanced at Jim and sighed. "My mom."

"Your what?"

"Francine and Gary stopped by last night and met Blair's mom."

Simon blinked at them owlishly. "You know, I never got the memo on this new policy. Since when did we start introducing our suspects to extended family?"

"It wasn't planned," Jim said. His face didn't give away how tight things had almost been. "They stopped by. Naomi said hello--she was great by the way, Chief."

"Er. Thanks."

"And Sandburg's been telling stories about how he comes from this long line of criminals--"

"Ah." Simon murmured. "That's nice."

"Simon, this will work. We couldn't have set things up more neatly if we'd planned it out beforehand."

"And Mrs.--Ms.--Sandburg agreed to this?"

Jim smiled. "We thought we'd talk to you first, sir."

"Ah."

***

It went almost exactly according to plan. That evening they picked up Gary outside of his apartment building and whisked him away in a non-descript van. Simon was there, along with Jim. Both of them were armed. Blair was still trying for sullen; even though it wasn't convincing, at least it was consistent. Naomi...well, Naomi was perfect. Calm. Polite. Completely cold blooded. Blair could almost believe she was smuggling hot luxuries in and out of Eastern Europe.

She handled Gary very well. Blair did not let himself think about how well. She raked him with her full attention, alternating mild contempt with appraisal and flattery. Gary ate it up. It was not an insight into his character Blair appreciated, especially since it was his mom whom Gary was looking at with desire as well as grudging respect.

There were things that, in the context of one's *mom* it was just better not to think about.

"Hm... What about Francine?"

"Well, from what I hear, you're the one who's really in charge."

"You heard right."

All right, a lot of the guys she'd dated had been somewhat...ungrounded. Maybe downright flakey. A couple had been appalling stupid--if gorgeous and earnest. And, yes, fine, all acts and expressions of life were beautiful. Hell, until this fall, those were words he lived by. But if that little trip had lasted just thirty seconds longer, he would have *had* to wipe that hungry smirk off Gary's face. He just would have had to.

Afterwards they all went out for Pizza; one meat-lover's with extra bacon and one white Florentine with eggplant and mushrooms. They went through two pitchers of beer, most of that divided between Simon and Naomi, since Jim still wasn't comfortable drinking very much on top of his whole sensory thing and Blair felt like he was constantly on duty.

Simon and Naomi turned out to have a lot in common. Weirdly, he had apparently been some kind of student radical in high school; civil rights, voter registration, anti nuclear power, environment, that sort of thing. "I believed in everyone, and I wanted to fix everything." He stopped, staring at the empty pizza pan. "Well, there were several of us. Peggy and I, we were sort of the ring leaders. We wanted to save the whole world."

And then the story came out about what had happened at Rossburg. It was pretty much the way Blair had put it together from what he'd heard in court and Jim's brief explanations. "I keep thinking, if I'd gone...If I'd been there, I would have been able to do something, you know?"

After a long minute, Naomi said softly, "Even if you *had* gone, you don't know that you would have arrived on time or that it would have made any difference." Simon shook his head, and she continued, "You chose not to go to a party, Simon. You didn't choose for Peggy to die. Whatever she knew or thought, she did know that."

"Simon," Jim said. "What Peggy was trying to do, you finished. We found the documents she died for. We put her killers away."

But Simon just shook his head, saying things had gotten way too heavy and it was time to go home. Blair and Jim were both sober, so they dropped off Simon and his car before taking Naomi back to the loft.

The next morning, Simon was back at the loft bright and early. There was some trouble getting the money to use in the deal for the Lamborghini. Even with as little as Blair knew about legal requirements, he was sure that unless they caught Petrie physically in possession of a hot car or taking a payment for one, they were out of luck.

Naomi took off early to spend the day with Wiggy at the co-op. She offered repeatedly to help out with closing the trap, but Blair wanted her out of the way and Jim didn't argue. While they waited for the money for the buy, Simon drilled Blair on the plan and his role in it.

All in all, Blair felt pretty good about the whole thing. The money arrived--at the last possible minute, but it got there--and as they drove toward the warehouse Blair was reassuringly aware that this time they were completely covered by back-up. The police were keeping their distance until the last moment, but getting out of this alive was much less dependant on Blair's ability to convince people he was a professional criminal.

They were greeted at the warehouse by a nearly rabid Gary. Where the hell have you been? We should've left ten minutes ago."

"The computer went down at the bank," Jim seemed convincingly grumpy. Before this case, Blair had never guessed how much of police work was acting. "Just relax. We're here, aren't we? Hey, where's Francine?"

"Francine and our sponsor had a disagreement. She won't be joining us today. You and I will take your pick-up, and the kid will meet us in the truck."

Blair's position was a quarter mile from the dock, just above an old fishing pier that was closed for repairs. A moment after Blair parked, Brown pulled up in an unmarked car. "You've still got the money? Let's get you wired," he said, hopping out. "Petrie may want to make the pay off here instead of at the warehouse."

He tried to look calm and blasé as Detective Brown taped the listening device to his chest. It felt kind of unreal and very unlikely. He glanced at his watch. Right about now the Lamborghini should be coming out of the cargo hold. As soon as they had it on the ground, Jim and Gary would make their move, Jim covering while Gary snatched the car.

Although the truck was couldn't be seen from the quay, it would take less than ninety seconds for Gary to get here. The only real question was, would the head of the car theft ring show up and take his money here, as Gary drove up, or later, at the warehouse.

Brown looked around, smiled once reassuringly, and disappeared into the piles of construction materials piled beside the water. He wasn't the only cop in the area. They were completely covered. If Gary showed up here, they would be ready.

He took a deep breath and let it out. Surely the car had to be on the ground by now. It occurred to him that if Francine had been wrong and there *was* no luxury car then the case was pretty much fucked because Petrie wasn't going to stick around if the plan fell through. No second chance, here. Jim was going to be so pissed if this case got away from them.

Still, though. If the whole thing was called off, Jim or Gary would call on the cell. Might call, any minute now.

Brown reappeared, one hand cupping the receiver in his ear. "We're on stand by," he said, coming over to Blair.

"Man, get out of here! If Petrie--"

"Petrie's down there--oh, shit. Wait." There was a long, horrible pause, and then Brown blinked. "Sandburg, Simon says get your butt down there and claim your...mother?"

***

It was a short trip to a warehouse just up the road. On the way, Blair tried to get a handle on how angry he should be. It wasn't like this was a complete surprise; Naomi had followed them before, after all. But it wasn't like her to lie about it. She'd been clear about going to visit friends; a premeditated lie at that. And Naomi was *bad* lying. How the hell had she fooled Jim?

Oh man, oh man. He'd thought she understood. This wasn't a game. This wasn't safe. She could have gotten hurt. She could have messed up the bust. Anything was possible. She could have--

She still might *yet* get Blair fired. But surely...oh surely, that hadn't been her intension.

But then, he would never have thought Naomi would have followed them today. Never. Anything was possible.

There were police cars and flashing lights everywhere. Blair looked around for his mother or Jim, but found only Simon, who looked up from his phone conversation long enough to wave at the warehouse and say, "Take your mother home. Jim can get her statement about the kidnapping this afternoon."

Kidnapping? Blair briefly considered the idea of Naomi kidnapping someone. It was a horrifying thought. It was much less horrifying than the thoughts which followed it. He ran in the direction Simon had indicated. He saw but ignored Francine being led away in handcuffs. He saw but ignored a cheerful wave from one of the detectives in Jim's unit. He found his mother at last, standing beside the Lamborghini, one hand resting on the hood and her eyes closed.

"Mom?" he said uncertainly.

She opened her eyes. "I don't understand, Blair. It's just a thing. A beautiful thing, but...I don't see how it could inspire all this greed."

"Mom. What happened?"

She looked faintly embarrassed. "Oh. Well. Sweetheart. Actually, that's almost a funny story." She bit her lip. "As I was heading toward my car, Francine showed up to try to renegotiate our deal. Sort of. She had a gun and..." Naomi trailed off and waved her hands helplessly. "In retrospect, passive resistance was clearly the way to go with this. I mean, if I'd sat down on the sidewalk what was she going to *do* shoot me in broad daylight in a busy street? But I was just so surprised, I wasn't thinking very clearly--sweetheart, are you ok?"

No, actually, he felt a little light-headed.

"I think everything's all right, though. I mean, we seem to have won. Francine and Gary have been arrested, and we even got their boss like Jim was hoping," she waved toward the other end of the warehouse and Blair turned to see a gorgeous black limo. Its entire front end was crumpled and embedded in--Jim's truck? "We even rescued the car they were stealing....Blair? Sweetie? What's wrong?"

"Jim," he gasped. "Where's Jim?"

"He was around here somewhere."

"Jim!" But he did not have the breath to scream. Surely, god, if his sentinel were in trouble someone would have *gotten* him. But looking at the broken truck Blair couldn't imagine how Jim could be fine. "Jim?"

"Yeah? Sandburg, Simon says--"

The voice came from behind him. Blair spun around, the thousand worries in his head coming out his mouth as "Your truck!"

"Blair!" Naomi said sternly. "It's only a *thing*. It's nothing to be angry about."

But apparently Jim had smelled Blair freaking out over him often enough to recognize it now. "Easy, Chief. I'm fine."

Blair's head snapped around. The whole front of the truck was bent in and twisted. Jim could not possibly be all right after that crash, and to think he must have been in so much pain that he had completely disassociated from it. Blair wondered if he was walking on broken bones.

He needed to stop freaking and do something. Jim was hurt--

"Chief, listen." Jim laid a hand on each of Blair's shoulders. "Listen. I wasn't in the truck when it hit. I'm not hurt."

Not hurt?

"Really. Everything's fine. I'm fine. Your mom's fine. Everything's good here."

"You son of a bitch," Blair rasped. He stumbled back a step and glared at Jim--looking sympathetic and reassuring--and Naomi--looking bewildered but kindly--and snarled, "I'm going to kill you both myself! I can't leave either of you alone for five minutes--"

"But Blair, honey, it wasn't my fault!"

"Sandburg, just calm--"

A young uniform approached then. He was trying not to look too interested, but his eyes kept lingering on Jim. "What?" Blair snapped.

"Uh, Captain Banks sent me to take you and Ms. Sandburg home?"

"Right. Fine. Wonderful idea."

But on the trip home things began to look less dire. All right, yes, Francine flipping out and taking a civilian hostage--nobody had expected that. But Simon had had the area surrounded. Nobody got away. Nobody got hurt. They even had Petrie participating in attempted grand theft auto.

"Mom, are you sure you're all right?"

"Nothing two bottles of wine and an hour's meditation won't cure."

"No--really. Are you sure--"

"Honey, why should I be upset? *My* priorities are just fine. I'm not a criminal. I'm not obsessed with a car. I'm not violent. Seeing all those seriously messed up people, well...It's not as though I didn't know that sometimes people....I mean, Francine...." Naomi collected herself and took a deep breath. "All right, yes, I'm practically in bed with the pigs at the moment--no offense--but I never, never said that there should be no social order *at all*."

"Yeah, right." Blair wasn't convinced, but he wouldn't argue. He set about making tea while Naomi called the coop and explained why she had stood them up. While she sipped her cup at the table, Blair began to clean the loft. Order would make Jim happy, and Blair had adrenalin to work off.

"Sweetie, I sense that you're a little up tight."

Blair looked up from the pile of papers he was sorting. Naomi made a face at him. "Let it go," she said. "It's over."

"It shouldn't have happened." None of it should have happened. Naomi should not have been allowed near a case. Jim should have not been working with his guide practically in another zip code. None of them--

"If there is anything to learn from this, learn it and go on. But really, the only lesson I see is that we can't predict what will happen and we can't control it."

"Let it go."

"Yes, baby. Let it go."

His cell phone rang. If Jim is in trouble-- Blair thought, answering it. But it wasn't Jim. It was Jack. "I need you both at the department, Blair. Now," he said without preamble.

"Jim's not here--"

"The police are here. They're trying to arrest Marcia."

"Oh, shit--" Blair grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. "What happened?"

"I can't--Do not touch me. Stop. Just stop--I can't explain now Blair. Just hurry."

Blair was locking the door before he registered that Naomi was in the hall with him. "Mom--"

"Is this police business?" she asked, and then, "Honey is Jim ok?"

"Something's wrong at the department."

"Well then, I'm coming with you."

Of course she was. Blair didn't have time to argue. Basically any peace and sanity in Jim's life, they owed to Jack Kelso; there was no way Blair was going to let his advisor's sentinel get arrested.

Not that he had a clue how to stop it.

Why were the police trying to arrest Marcia?

At almost-noon, traffic on Route 12 and Faculty Drive was almost nonexistent. Blair and Naomi made very good time. The elevator in Hargrove was abysmally slow, so Blair ducked into the stairwell. As soon as he opened the door, sounds of venomous argument made him cringe, but he couldn't make out the words. "My goodness," Naomi murmured.

Blair took the stairs two at a time, leaving his mother slightly behind. By the time he hit the second floor landing, he could make out the loudest of the voices as the psycho graduate secretary whom Jack had said was working out her two weeks notice. When Blair turned onto the last flight, he saw she was accompanied by a middle-aged man in a CPD uniform and the new head of university security, a small Asian woman who'd given several talks the previous fall on parking lot safety.

The Asian woman headed Blair off at the stairs. "I'm sorry, the anthropology department is closed for the moment--"

Blair held up his guide ID and the security badge he used at the police department. "I understand you have some sort of problem involving a sentinel?" He tried his best to sound official and authoritative.

The security officer rolled her eyes. "Believe me, the sentinel isn't the problem. The man *she* attacked is willing to drop the assault charges if she won't press charges against the sentinel for defending him, but," she shrugged, "Miss Dennis wants us to throw the book at both of them."

Blair looked at Rachel Dennis leaning against the wall at the top of the stairwell. She was now softly and methodically cursing out the cop who just looked bored. "Right," Blair said. He nodded his thanks, and followed by Naomi, who had caught up to him, pushed open the door that lead to the Anthropology Department.

There were more university security in here too, as well as two EMTs, another cop, and a cluster of anthropology professors in the corner. An undergrad was hunched up on the battered orange couch. She was crying a little. The division chair Hal Buckner and an EMT were arguing with Jack by the coffee machines, and that's where Blair went.

"Jack, there's no point in being difficult about this," Buckner was saying. "You're going to have to have stitches and probably a tetanus shot. You might as well get it over with."

"You've been working with guides for twenty years. How the hell did you not notice that we have only one priority?" Blair had never seen his advisor lose his temper before. He handled even the most appalling situations with a cool distance Blair had always envied. Most of the time you wouldn't even guess that he was even capable of being rude, let alone violent, but just then he looked ready to haul off and hit Buckner if the other man came in reach.

"Um, Jack," Blair said quickly.

Kelso's anger, along with his interest in his opponents, seemed to vanish. When he turned his chair to face Blair he was reasonable and worried, not furious and dangerous. "Things have gotten a little out of hand. I was hoping you might be in a position to intercede with the police."

"What happened?" He could see Jack's left arm, now. The sleeve had been cut away and a gauze bandage covered most of his forearm. Whatever wound it covered was still bleeding; the gauze was already spotted red.

"The graduate secretary got into an argument with one of the workstudies. I came out to see what the problem was in time to catch *her* chasing the girl with a pair of scissors. I managed to disarm her, but not neatly," he shrugged the bandaged arm. "Unfortunately, Marcia was coming to meet me for lunch. She was in the elevator. She heard everything, Blair. She came out of the elevator and I was bleeding. It wasn't her fault--"

"God, Jack! What did she do?"

One of the security people milling around piped up, "According to the loudmouth in the hall, attempted murder."

"No! Blair, believe me. If Marcia had tried to kill Rachel--"

"What did she do?"

"Grabbed her by the hair and threw her into the wall. It...it might have gotten worse, but Hal and Rita were coming back from class, and they managed to separate them. The workstudy," he glanced at the weeping undergrad, who was currently snapping at one of the cops to leave her alone, "had already called the police and Hal called security....Blair, if Rachel presses charges, they'll both be arrested. I don't know if she could cope with that."

"Yeah, I get it." He knew only the bare outlines of Marcia's health problems, but sentinels in general had trouble with confinement. "I'll call Jim," he said. But Jim's phone was busy. And so was Simon's. Damn. He glanced around. "Where is she?"

"They have her in the library. Blair--"

"I know. I know. Look, at least I can stay with her. If I could arrest her myself...." He couldn't, but even so, his ID said 'Major Crimes.' It would get him in any crime scene, give him access to any part of the police station (although there were a few places he wasn't allowed to go alone). "I can keep an eye on her until this is sorted out."

"Will you check on her now? They won't let me near her."

"I could talk to the officer in charge--"

"Later. Just go make sure she wasn't hurt."

"Yeah...Ok."

The department's small library was crowded with a short table, a copier machine, the automatic grader, and the file cabinet that held graduate reserves. Low shelves lined the walls. The books were mainly faculty cast-offs, although there were a few classics like Malinowski's *The Sexual Life of Savages* and Mead's *Emotional Dependence in Samoan Sentinel-Guide Pairs*. Two guys in uniforms--one from the PD and the other from Rainier Security--lounged in the doorway talking about baseball.

Marcia was seated in a battered wooden chair against the far wall. Her head was leaned back against the books and her eyes were closed. She was still.

Blair had seen that kind of stillness in Jim a couple of times, when he was exhausted and spiking and worn to the point when all there was left to do was conserve his strength and endure. Even then, though, Jim had projected an aura of irritability. He had been *there*. Marcia was blank, almost empty. She made no reaction to Blair's arrival. He could barely see her breathing.

Blair handed his ID to the policeman who looked at it curiously. "A guide? I don't get it."

"Have you ever arrested a sentinel before?"

"No."

"Have you ever met anybody who'd arrested a sentinel?"

"No."

"You need me." Blair took his ID back and squeezed around the table to squat beside Marcia. "Hey," he said softly. "It's Blair."

The ripple of expression might have been a scowl. "What, really?" But then she added, "Jack?"

"He's ok, I think. He's trying to figure a way to get you out of this." She was pale, and--what? Distant? Hollow? Blair didn't like it. "Marcia, I'm going to touch you, ok?"

A small movement that might have been a shrug. Her skin was very cool and dry. Gently, Blair took her wrist and checked her pulse: very fast and irregular. There was some kind of problem. "Were you hurt in the fight?"

Her eyes flickered. The brief expression in them might have been contempt. "No."

"Hey, come on. Cut me a break. It's not my fault I'm not Jack." Nothing. "Are you spiking? Are you reacting to something in the room?"

"It's an unventilated copier room. What do you think?" she murmured.

"Did you tell them?" Blair asked, but that didn't matter. He managed to stand up calmly and turn around. "You can't keep her in here," he said.

"Why not?"

"Because to knowingly expose a sentinel to a chemical agent they react to is assault with a deadly weapon, and if I don't take her out of here, I'm going to have to arrest all of us." It wasn't their fault. They didn't know. And even if they knew, how could anyone understand. The important thing was to stay calm. Freaking out would just be one more hostile stimulus Marcia would have to cope with.

God, they were in trouble.

Marcia didn't resist as Blair hauled her to her feet. She moved slowly, but she moved. When they cleared the table, Blair put a hand around her waist. She neither leaned on him nor flinched away. With small, slow steps, he guided her to the battered orange couch in the communal area of the department. Jack was there, suddenly, waiting for them. He caught Marcia and eased her onto the couch.

Jack examined her quickly, his hands checking pulse and joints, then opening her mouth so he could check her color an look for swelling. Too quietly for Blair to hear, they murmured to one another, and then Jack turned and signaled to the EMT who was packing up to leave.

It was really bad, then, if Jack's first move was to ask for help.

Blair backed away. This was a 'learning experience' he couldn't afford to miss; Jack Kelso was the best guide Blair was ever likely to see in action. But Jack and Marcia were also friends, and Blair had an idea how bad things might be. He backed to the wall beside the coffee machine and closed his eyes.

He knew how he would feel if this were Jim.

"Blair, sweetie, what's going on?"

Amazingly, until he heard her whisper beside him, Blair had forgotten Naomi was there. "Jack's partner is having a bad reaction...probably to the fumes from the copier."

"How awful. How serious is it?"

"I dunno. She's been sick for a long time."

"How awful...."

Yeah. Awful.

When Jack called him Blair bounced away from the wall and hurried over.

"Blair, her blood pressure's dropping. She needs to go to the hospital. I can't...ride in the ambulance with her. I'll be right be hind you, but she needs a guide with her, and you're the only one here. Angela and Isabella aren't even on campus today...."

The EMTs were already positioning the stretcher. There wasn't any time. "Ok. Yes. What do I need to know?"

Jack put a laminated card into Blair's hand; Marcia's list of chemical don'ts. "I will be right behind you."

Blair nodded. The EMTs were checking Marcia's IV line, getting ready to transport her. "Just hurry, ok?"

***

The trip to the hospital lasted four and a half minutes. Blair knew because when he wasn't looking at Marcia, he was looking at his watch. There wasn't much for him to do. At that point the EMTs were only treating her for shock, which was difficult to mess up, even for a sentinel.

He talked to her. Jack had told her to stay conscious, and she made an effort to listen. She was still blunted by that same, terrible stillness, though, and when the EMTs spoke to her, she refused to respond.

In the emergency room, the doctor hadn't even finished his examination when Jack appeared. He motioned Blair away, and Blair went gratefully.

Naomi was pacing in the waiting room. Blair didn't know what to say to her. She patted his hand and led him to one of the square, naugahyde seats. "I gave your friend a ride. He didn't seem to be in a good place to drive."

The emergency room wasn't crowded; an elderly couple sat in the corner. A small, fretful little girl sat in her father's lap over by the door.

"I don't understand," Naomi said. "Something in your department made her sick?"

Blair nodded.

"But, I mean, all sentinels can't be that...sensitive, can they?"

"Not usually, no. But some of them...have trouble controlling their body's reactions. And she's been sick for a while."

Naomi was silent for a moment. "And Jim?"

"Mom, I can't...talk about Jim. You know him, and, I mean--"

"It's private. I hear that." But she did not let the subject drop. "From what you've told me, dealing with reactions to the environment is a big part of a guide's job." Blair nodded. "Generally... on average, I mean, how often does a sentinel react badly enough to something to have to go to the hospital?"

"On average, once in every three to five years. I know one, though, a guy from Canada, he's only been to the hospital once for chemical sensitivity. That's really rare. And sometimes things are bad enough that it happens once or twice a month."

"That can't--I mean, how could that be sustainable? That can't go on for very long."

"Usually, it doesn't."

Something in his tone or face made Naomi swallow and look away. "Oh. I see. Blair, will your friend....?"

"I don't know. I don't know what's happening. She went right into shock. That's not a good sign. And I'm not sure, I mean, she's been really sick, on and off. Just being in shock is dangerous. It may be too much for her, even if they can get the reaction under control. And they may not be able to."

"Oh."

***

Jim had been on the phone with Beverly Sanchez when Brown tapped him on the shoulder and told him that Naomi Sandburg was trying to reach him. He'd taken the call hoping she only had some questions about the case and wasn't going to call on him to referee some disagreement with Blair. Or something. You could never tell with those two.

She was on her way to the hospital. Marcia had just been whisked off in an ambulance, and Blair was with her, and Naomi was somehow concerned that there might be some sort of legal problems.

What? He'd wanted to ask, but he'd already been on his way to the door. What legal problems? Where was Jack? Why was *Blair* with Marcia?

He found Blair and Naomi in the waiting room of Cascade General. He could have told by the smell alone that it was the hospital of choice for sentinels; the disinfectants it used weren't based on ammonium chloride. Jim had been here himself a couple of times, but Lee hadn't usually been picky.

Blair didn't notice him until Jim was standing right beside him. From the way Blair smelled, things must be pretty bad. "Hey," Jim said softly.

Blair stood up and hugged him. Ok, then. Definitely very bad. "What happened, Chief?"

Blair shook his head miserably.

"Were you with them?"

"Late. I got there late. There was fight at the department. The crazy secretary finally lost it. Jack was hurt, not badly I think, but Marcia--there was a chemical exposure afterward, and if that's all it was, then ok. But Jim, if she's reacting to *stress* now--"

Gently, Jim laid a hand over Blair's mouth. There was a lot of ambient sound in the emergency room: people talking, machinery, air conditioning, even a cheap white noise generator. It took Jim a moment to focus in onto a familiar voice. "There's some swelling," he reported. "The doctors are trying to decide if it's localized or some kind of general edema. Jack's worried about her heart."

"Um, are you supposed to be listening?" Naomi asked softly.

Jim found himself smiling without warmth. "Definitely not. They're talking about immunosuppressants. There's some disagreement about what kind, I don't understand...."

"Never mind. It doesn't matter."

For a moment Jim hesitated. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. "Why not?"

"The anti-immune drugs are all pretty toxic to sentinels. When they talk about using them...it's because they think things can't get any worse."

"Oh."

"Come on." Abruptly, Blair stepped back and brushed his hair out of his face. "Let's get out of here."

"We should stay," Naomi protested.

"No. We shouldn't. Jack would understand."

"Blair," Jim said gently, "It's not contagious." He frowned. "We owe Jack a lot."

"Of course it's not. And, yeah, I owe Jack everything. But I can't do anything for them now. I'll come check on them later, when they've moved her to a room. He'll need a gopher then. Or whatever. Come on."

There was no point in arguing with Blair when he was like this. Jim and Naomi followed him out almost meekly. Naomi clearly didn't understand why they were leaving, but Jim thought he did. Michaelson's Syndrome--and even though Blair wouldn't say the words aloud, Jim knew enough to guess that this was the fast kind of Michelson's, the great boogey of sentinel illness--wasn't contagious, except that guides seemed to think a sentinel could get it by *thinking* about it. Jim knew the difference between his body being sick and someone else's body being sick, and he had paid enough to Blair's visualization training to know not to imagine what it felt like. But there was no point in arguing about this with Sandburg.

It was almost five when they got home, but even though there was no point in going back to the station, there was still work to do. Naomi still hadn't made a statement about what had happened that morning. Jim got her story at the kitchen table while Blair made dinner. Parsley potatoes, sautéed collards, and something called 'tempe.' Jim would have preferred a steak, but the only meat in the house was that boiled tongue which Jim would not touch on a dare. The tempe didn't taste too great, but the texture was....absorbing. Kind of pleasant, in a smooth, sticky, springy way. Blair had to tap his arm twice to keep Jim from zoning on it.

After dinner Naomi asked to borrow Blair's computer for a while. Blair went back to the hospital--alone, which left Jim to amuse himself. He found a rerun of Bonanza on cable and tried to watch. He kept thinking, though, about Jack and Marcia. He felt a little bad about not liking her, but also relieved. She was probably dying.

Of course, she might not always have been abrasive and difficult. Hell, any number of people probably thought Jim was abrasive and difficult at this point. When the senses were out of control there wasn't a lot of energy left to devote to being charming and polite. Five or ten years ago, Marcia might have had a sparkling personality. She might not have been so thin and harsh and short tempered.

Jim wished it were over for her one way or another.

Blair was back in just under two hours. He made a bee line for the fridge and beer, and then joined Jim on the couch. "Mom still on the computer?"

"Yeah." Jim tried to smile. "She's not looking for scary recipes or anything, right? Or does she cook organ meats in the face of tragedy."

"You should try the tongue. You'd like it."

"Thanks anyway." Jim sighed. "How are they?"

"Marcia is stable. Jack is hoping he'll be able to take her home tomorrow. In a non-threatening environment there are breathing exercises and altered states that might help."

Jim nodded and moved slightly closer to his partner. "How's Jack?"

"Calm," Blair said shortly. He turned toward the TV. "What are we watching?"

Jim turned the TV off and faced him straight on. "See, Chief...The thing is, I keep imagining you in his place. Not for a while, yet, but in four or five years...that'll be you, trying to make those decisions for me. And we won't be able to talk about it then and I know--"

"Stop. Just stop." Sandburg's eyes had gone hard and distant, and Jim didn't like the way he suddenly smelled. Sandburg always smelled like this right before he reamed Jim out for doing something stupid and dangerous. And then he smelled guilty and apologized....And this time, damn it, it wasn't fair. Jim was trying to do the right thing. Blair was always nagging him to *talk* about things, to pay attention to the sentinel stuff, even when talking wouldn't do anything about it. And here Jim was *trying* and Blair looked ready to blow a gasket. "Is that what you think?" Blair asked in a voice as clear and hard as glass. "That in a couple of years you're just going to get sick and die? Is that what you think *I* think?"

Jim took a deep breath. Sandburg *really* didn't want him thinking about this, but there was no point in being dishonest. Before he'd met Blair, Jim had expected things to be over pretty quickly, and deep down, it had been kind of a relief. Yes, he was going to die horribly, but it wasn't going to take forever. Lately, though, as it became clear that he had a little more time and that there were things that could be done to postpone the end and make the wait easier, Jim had begun to actively resent his fate. But just because he didn't like it...that was no excuse not to face it. And if there was anything to be honest with his guide about, this was it. "Blair, I'm not a child. We can talk about this. Maybe I...want to talk about this."

"Jim," Blair said, his voice dangerously soft, "do you really think, if you were dying, that we would be just *sitting here*?"

Jim didn't understand.

"Jim, if your job or this city were killing you, we would be working Fish and Wildlife right now. Or inspecting farm animals. Or watching cars in some godforsaken spot on the Canadian border--" Blair broke off, reining in anger and something else. "I promise you, if you were in trouble, if you were sick, I would not just....sit here and watch you die."

"It's not always...There isn't always something to do."

"I would try. I would try. But Jim--you're not fragile. And you're not in trouble here. It's going well--"

Jim shook his head. "You're always so careful and so picky. You watch what I eat, what I *think*. And I appreciate that, I do. But come on. You're just trying to...put off the inevitable."

"No."

"And I'm not complaining. You're doing a good job--"

"No. No. I'm trying to give you all the training you should have had growing up in addition to keeping you efficient and comfortable." He closed his eyes. "God. I'm trying to teach you good habits...because you're going to be a sentinel for a long time, Jim. And those can be good, comfortable, happy years or long miserable years and I was, you know, going for the comfortable and happy."

Years, Jim thought. And then "How many years are we talking about?"

"Thirty? Forty? You might lose some hearing and smell after sixty. It's not uncommon. But mostly, your senses will still be there."

"*Forty years*?" Jim almost shouted. He remembered Naomi, but there was no answering movement from Blair's bedroom. "Forty years?"

"Well, I can't promise," Blair said quickly. "You *could* have a fatal reaction tomorrow. Or, hell, you could get shot on duty. Or hit by lightening. Anything can happen. But it's not likely. Odds are you'll work for another twenty years or so, retire, and get old just like anybody else."

Blair was looking at him expectantly, like someone who'd just brought good news. And it was good news, of course it was....

But Jim had never imagined having to live with the damn senses for another thirty or forty years.

Not that he wasn't grateful. He was. Sandburg had just handed him his life back. Or rather, had spent the last several months retrieving Jim's life from the jaws of hell. But--

Jim had gotten used to the problems he had had. He hadn't liked the idea of suffering for a few short, bleak years until the senses killed him, and he'd really hoped it happened quickly (say a bullet in the head some night while he was zoned or really quick anaphylaxis rather than slow Michaelson's), but he had faced up to it. The sentinel-thing was just something that had happened to him. It was terrible, but there was no avoiding it, and the best Jim could hope for was to make some kind of difference in the world before he died.

Now all of that was gone, and he was going to have to re-plan everything.

Change his expectations.

Pick up some areas he'd let slide because he'd assumed he wouldn't be around to see them through.

No wonder Blair had been pushing expanding Jim's social life so hard. If Jim was going to be around in ten years or more, he'd need friends....

Jim's mouth went dry. "Sandburg, are you...um, are you committing to twenty years?"

"Jim, when I joined the Guide Program at Rainier, I committed to a lot longer than that." He spoke calmly, watching Jim with thoughtful eyes. "I'm very happy working with you. I...like you a lot. I think you know that. I can see doing this job for at least twenty years, and at the very least, I'll stay as long as you need me--" He stopped abruptly. "No, I can't promise you that. Jack never left Marcia willingly. I can't promise it won't be me...hit by lightening. Or whatever. But you'll be ok. All you ever needed was a halfway competent guide. That's part of what I'm telling you, Jim. I've been telling you for months. You got off to a bad start, but really, you're ok. And you're going to be ok."

Jim closed his eyes. He tried to imagine getting older. He tried to imagine forty-five, with his hair mostly gone and his knees starting to go. He'd have to transfer to forensics, then. He would need a year and half of continuing ed to be a forensic sentinel. There hadn't seemed to be any point in starting the training before. He wondered if there were any classes Blair would have to take.

He tried to imagine retiring. He'd need a hobby. Fishing, maybe. Or wood carving. No power tools, not with his senses. Little tiny knives, maybe, and sharp, pointy awls.

Blair's hand on his face felt strangely hot. "Hey, easy, there," he said gently. "How about some deep breaths, Jim? That's good."

"I don't know if I can do this for twenty years, Chief."

"Sure you can. It won't always be like this. You need time to practice. And you need to get used to the senses. And you need to get used to not being scared all the time."

"I *am* scared all the time!"

"Are you?" Blair asked, looking into his eyes.

Yes, always--but as Jim opened his mouth to say it he realized that the vague anxiety that hovered at the edge of his life most of the time wasn't really like the panic and desperation that used to ambush him several times a day. Yeah, the knowledge that things might to horribly wrong any minute was wearing....but not like the fear that came when walls that obviously weren't moving seemed to close in. Or like suddenly not being able to see or hear. Or like not being able to breathe.

Actually, lately, things had been pretty tame. And even when dizziness or mysterious welts or spikes had ambushed him, knowing that Blair was less than an arm's reach away had kept him from panicking.

It was possible that the vague anxiety would eventually go away too. Maybe soon.

Maybe very soon.

"It's ok," Sandburg whispered. "It's ok. It's going to get better. And in the mean time I'll do everything I can to make it as easy on you as possible."

Jim swallowed hard, unable to speak, unsure what to say. He didn't resist when Sandburg hugged him hard. He knew the gesture was meant to be comforting, and that alone was enough. The strong, competent arms of his guide weren't even needed.

Blair followed him upstairs at bedtime and tucked him in. That would be irritating and frustrating and kind of sad, except, apparently, Blair didn't see himself as some kind of caregiver to the suffering and hopeless. He wasn't--really, really wasn't--just tying to make his partner comfortable and effective in whatever time he had left. Apparently, when Blair said 'sustainable' he didn't mean, 'good enough to get by for a couple of years' but 'a pattern you can live with for twenty years.'

Maybe Blair was in denial.

Blair adjusted the covers and sat on the edge of the bed. If Jim wasn't dying, maybe he ought to resent being treated like he was four. But just then, Blair leaned down and whispered, "I'm right about this. I've been right about everything else, haven't I?"

Well, crap. On the possibility that Blair really was right, Jim was going to have to learn to be a sentinel. Not the kind that got by and made due for a couple of years. The kind who was a sentinel day in and day out for twenty.

He tried to picture Rucker. Or Benton Fraser. Or Monk--except Blair kept insisting that he wasn't a useful model of sentinel practices.

Blair brushed his fingers across Jim's forehead, silently offering him pressure points that would help him relax. "Will you sleep for me, Jim? We can talk more tomorrow. Everything's going to be all right."

"You shouldn't make promises you can't keep," Jim said. That was in one of Blair's textbooks. For preserving trust, keeping promises was more essential than telling the truth.

"I can keep this one."

***

Blair wouldn't have thought he could sleep. Even while talking to Jim, it had been hard pushing images of Jack and Marcia out of his mind. Well. Guide programs stressed empathy. It turned out that the same skills that were so good for getting you to imagine trying to drive with a sensory spike were also good for imagining what your advisor was going through while he watched his best friend's vital signs swing further and further off kilter. Blair could not imagine, if he were in Jack's place, being nearly so calm, so rational, so sturdy....

And then there was Jim. And wasn't *that* a lovely little bombshell. Because apparently Jim had been assuming that Blair and Jack were in the same position all along. The surprises never stopped.

But as soon as he slid between the cool sheets he'd lain out on the longer couch, Blair felt himself begin to let go. He didn't *want* to think about Marcia. Better to be asleep then to go there. And as for Jim--

Jim was upstairs. He was safe. He was healthy and looked after. Whether he understood it or not, he had a guide who would cushion and protect him. Whatever damage Brackett had done, he wasn't here now and would not get near Jim again. Jim just needed time and kindness, and Blair could see that he had both. As long as he was upstairs...and safe...and healthy...and looked after.

Everything would be fine.

The next morning at breakfast Blair offered to give Naomi a brief tour of the police station. Jim would be spending most of the morning doing paperwork on the case and Blair thought he really should make an investment in some quality time. But Naomi shook her head, "Oh, thank you honey, but I really need to go the library. Or--say, does Rainier let non-students into their library? That would be perfect."

"Uh, sure. But you can't check anything out."

"That's ok. I just need to do some research." And then she had hopped up to collect the next batch of pancakes and refill everyone's orange juice.

Blair drove, much to Jim's irritation. Blair just snorted, "Look, you totaled *your* truck. This is my car, and I'm driving," and dropped Jim off at the station to do paperwork. Blair and picked up a bag of organic fruit at the coop before making a quick trip to the hospital. When he had gone over the night before and offered help, this was the only thing Jack had asked for. Marcia had already tried going macrobiotic and Raw Food, and it hadn't improved things, but eating the processed god-knows-what the hospital served couldn't be a help.

Blair knocked on the door frame outside Marcia's private room and poked his head in. They were sitting several feet apart, glowering at one another in sullen exhaustion. It felt like he'd interrupted a fight. Marcia closed her eyes and turned her head. Jack looked up and murmured a polite "hello."

At first glance Marcia looked much better. The stark thinness that had made her look so sharp and harsh had blunted into something softer and more attractive. At the second glance, though, Blair realized that she wasn't *fatter*, she was just puffy. Retaining water, which might be a sign of either Michaelson's or heart failure. Take your pick.

Jack, for his part, looked almost as bad. He clearly hadn't slept and his hair was lank and dull. His eyes--

Hurriedly, Blair held out the bag: "Not a huge selection this time of year. Apples. Whole grain bread. Frozen strawberries."

"Thank you. Isabella is stopping by later with some things from home. But I'm still hoping we're not staying long."

"Is anyone taking your classes?"

"Rita. She's not a guide, but she knows the material." Rita was Jack's research assistant. She was a graduate student in anthropology getting ready to start her dissertation work on sentinels and primary school education.

Without opening her eyes, Marcia muttered, "He could give you a ride."

Jack sighed, gently took one of her hands. "No," he said softly. "Just no. I'm not going home. We'll go home together soon, or we'll both stay here. It's all right."

A single tear slid out from under one of Marcia's pale lids and rolled into her ear.

"Jack--" Blair fumbled, looked away.

"I don't know if I've done the right thing," he said, and Blair wasn't certain if Jack was talking to Marcia or to him. "She grew up in a city. Colorado wasn't working, I thought maybe....someplace that felt more familiar. But I don't know. Maybe it was selfish, bringing her here to me."

Blair felt slightly sick.

On the bed, Marcia slitted heir eyes open. "Bad guide," she whispered. "No biscuit."

To Blair's surprise, Jack smiled and reached out to squeeze her hand. "I believe we've talked about this in class, Blair. The point where you second-guess yourself so continually that absolutely no action is possible?" He sighed. "So. Your mother's visiting. How is Jim handling that?"

Blair blinked at the change of subject and said quickly, "Good. Mom's really....flexible. And Jim is trying really hard." It would have been nice to talk about Jim's panic attack that first night. Or Naomi's hostility to the whole idea of Blair working with the police (never mind that in *practice* she was getting along with the law enforcement lifestyle very well). But he couldn't lay any of that on Jack just then. He had his own problems.

As quickly has he could manage, Blair headed off. "Ground support" from friends and colleagues was helpful--even necessary--but in the end, a sentinel and her guide had to work things out themselves.

He sat in the car in the dim, underground parking lot and closed his eyes. He would have liked to talk to Jack about that mess last night, but that was *way* out of the question. Well. Never mind. Late Bloomer adjustment wasn't Jack's area anyway. There wasn't a lot written on it, at least that Blair could find. He certainly hadn't been prepared--

"You're always so careful and so picky. You watch what I eat, what I *think*. And I appreciate that, I do. But come on. You're just trying to...put off the inevitable.

Blair hadn't caught it.

He had *noticed*--of course he had noticed--that except for a brief period around in December, Jim had shown almost no interest in other sentinels. No curiosity, no resentment, no excitement, no nothing. Finding out you were a sentinel in your thirties, it had to change your whole identity. Didn't it? Like finding out your parents had lied to you about your ethnicity. Or changing your sexual orientation. Or maybe converting to a new religion--except involuntary. But while Jim had dabbled briefly with issues like "normalcy" and "freak" and made some sentinel friends, he had never made the leap to thinking of other sentinels as "us."

Blair had thought Jim was having issues, probably anti-sentinel prejudice from his upbringing. Or maybe he just didn't have enough exposure to other sentinels to see what his new role consisted of. But no. Jim had skipped the whole identity thing because he was seeing his senses as a fatal disease rather than the defining characteristic of a social category.

Blair had missed this. For four months he had missed this, and he'd feel like a really shitty guide, except....

Jim had never complained. Not once. He had assumed he was dying, and he'd just set himself and gone on.

So, no, reaming himself out for being stupid would just be a self-pitying little side trip and no use to Jim at all. But--

Jim, I'm so sorry.

Blair really wished he could talk to Jack about this.

What would Jack say? Well, mostly what Jack said about everything was, "It's going to take time. You *have* time. Be patient. Be gentle. Don't rush him."

Jim. I'm so sorry, man. I'm so sorry.

But it wasn't Blair's fault. And it wasn't unfixable. And it was early yet. They were just starting.

Blair realized his eyes were burning and immediately shoved Jim out of his mind and started the truck. He could not go to his partner smelling like tears. Jim didn't need Blair to be sorry, he needed him to be patient and persistent and gentle. Jim certainly didn't need to be worried about Blair's emotional state.

He got to the station cheerful and ready to work. They spent the rest of the day interviewing witnesses--some for Jim's own cases, but most for other detectives. Monk wasn't real good at interrogations. He disliked being around people too much to calm down and focus they way he should. And, anyway, forensics wasn't *about* interviewing--as he pointed out when anyone asked him to sit in on an interrogation.

Jim was good at it. He knew when to push and when to be nice. Sometimes he sat back and let someone else ask the questions. Sometimes he loomed over a suspect like an annoyed bear. He was like a dancer. Or an artist of words and silences and facial expression. The high point of the afternoon hit when Henry Brown introduced Jim and his guide to a witness--who, realizing that he was about to be questioned by a sentinel, burst into tears and confessed. Blair chuckled about that the rest of the day, but Jim just rolled his eyes and said, "Moron. It's not like a sentinel's opinion of whether someone is lying is admissible in court."

For the most part, Blair didn't pay too much attention to the cases. He watched his sentinel. He watched the focus and finesse he brought to each interview....and he watched Jim withdraw after each one, standing quietly in the hall, collecting himself. After the third one, Blair maneuvered him into a corner and planted himself between Jim and the world. He experimented a bit. Jim relaxed more if Blair faced away from him.

He felt safe with Blair keeping watch. Safe enough to relax and settle himself. Every once in a while, Blair reminded himself to ask, "How you doing, big guy?" but it was to remind Jim that he cared, not because he hadn't been paying attention to how Jim was doing. Jim was doing great.

Also, by 4:30, quite tired. They could have stuck around for another hour doing paperwork--there always seemed to be plenty--but Blair collected his sentinel and took him home instead.

In the elevator heading up to the loft, Jim frowned and looked around. "Is Naomi having a party?" he asked.

Blair's head snapped up. "What?"

"There are *people* in the loft." He frowned. "It doesn't sound like a party."

When they stepped out of the elevator, Blair couldn't hear anything. Naomi didn't usually have parties, but the parties she went to were often pretty loud--

No. It was ridiculous. She didn't know enough people in Cascade anymore to put together something big on short notice. Even if she would--And she wouldn't--

The door to 307 opened and a couple came out, holding hands and talking to each other excitedly.

Shocked, Blair watched as they were followed by Wiggy and Elizabeth, two old friends of mom's. Before he could decide if he was angry about this, Blair watched his ex-advisor Angela come out his door. Followed by Mike, a sentinel on faculty at Rainer, and John and Shelly, two guide students a year behind Blair.

Jim tugged him out of the way so they exiting crowd wouldn't walk directly into him. Angela smiled politely as she passed.

Like fish swimming upstream, Blair and Jim made their way to the door. People continued to exit the apartment--eerily, like a clown car, the loft seemed to hold more people than could actually fit in it.

In the dining area, Naomi was saying her good-byes to Hal Buckner and tall thin woman with ankle-length grey hair that Blair didn't know.

Before Blair could digest what he was seeing, the last of the stragglers left, closing the door behind them, and the three of them were alone.

"Hi, sweetie," Naomi said on her way to the living room to collect coffee cups. "You're home early. I haven't had a chance to tidy up."

Before Blair could answer, Jim said, "Um, that's ok. Naomi...who were those people?"

Oh, crap, Blair thought. Strangers in his house. We're going to spend the evening sterilizing everything with vinegar.

"Everybody," Naomi said brightly. "I can't believe we got such a wonderful turnout on such short notice."

"Turn out for what?" Jim asked.

But Naomi didn't seem to hear the question. "Blair, your department is absolutely wonderful. I ran into that nice Shelly in the stacks at the library while I was researching sentinels. It turns out you actually have a database on just what I was looking for. And she knows everybody. Not that I'm pushing, by the way, but you could do worse--"

"Mom! What's going on?"

"Worse for what?" Jim asked, but Naomi didn't seem to hear him. Which was just as well; Naomi playing yenta was something he really would rather Jim not see.

"Well--you know, I'd call it a 'consciousness raising,' but more than half the people there were already experts. Well, obviously. I guess it was more of an 'initial strategy session.' If you have to give it a name."

Blair had a sinking feeling that his life was about to get more complicated. "Strategy for what?" Jim asked.

Naomi picked up a piece of paper from the couch and handed it to Blair. "Honey, did you realize that almost fifteen percent of sentinel hospitalizations are caused by artificial fragrances made from petroleum distillates? Well, of course you know--"

Blair knew. Actually, fifteen percent was the conservative estimate. You could take a sentinel to a mall, but you couldn't let him go into the department stores. A few high profile accidents involving sentinels and people with multiple chemical sensitivities had embarrassed some stores into not ambushing people with squirts of perfume, but it was too big a chance to take. Jim had been hospitalized once already for a reaction to a particular obscure perfume and a part of Blair's brain never forgot that it could happen again.

Blair looked down at the paper in his hand. It appeared to be a list of general sentinel 'don'ts': formaldehyde, benzene, aspartame, organophosphates, synthetic pyrethroids--It was a long list and the chemical names included were mainly technical, but Blair knew them just the same. He didn't need to read the whole page. Pesticides. Preservatives. Fungicides. Artificial sweeteners. Fertilizers. This was the stuff that killed sentinels.

Blair closed his eyes. "Mom." Oh, god. "Mom, people have been fussing about this stuff for ten years. You--you don't know what you're fighting here. They've made some progress, at least with the worst stuff, but the industry has been pushed as far as it's going to go. You can't--you can't do anything about these."

Jim took the paper from Blair and began to read. Naomi frowned and shook her head. "We're not going for legislation with this. We're going for education. To start with. Blair. Honey. A friend of yours is in the hospital right now because of a chemical exposure she got at Rainier. One of the top guide schools in the country. Blair, that's wrong. Sentinels ought to be safe there."

"Mom--"

"And it's not just sentinels. You know that. These things are poisonous to everyone. But cancer or chronic fatigue is less dramatic than being whisked off in an ambulance--"

"Mom, you can't--"

"Naomi, what *are* you doing?" Jim asked, waving the paper at her.

"Well, we're starting with a demonstration on Monday morning. On campus. That's when we'll start circulating the petition. We aren't quite sure yet, just which products to include on it, but we have all weekend and a bunch of sentinel experts to finalize the list. And we're going to ask for changes in the ventilation on campus, since obviously you can't completely give up Xeroxing over night. Or figure out how to make the methods non-toxic."

Blair opened is mouth, shut it again. Tried to get a grip on his temper. "Mom. It won't work."

"It has to work. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, Blair. Not being poisoned is not only a civil right, it's a human right. We have to try."

"But you aren't even staying--"

"I come through a couple of times a year. Besides, Wiggy has lots of experience with civil disobedience, and your friends from the department seem highly motivated. Oh. Look how late it's getting. What do you boys want to do about dinner? I have some lovely collards..."

Naomi bustled into the kitchen, muttering about dinner.

Blair turned to Jim, who was staring at the list in stunned silence. "Um. Sorry about the mess, Jim."

Jim grunted.

"Are you ok? Jim?"

"I don't think I've ever been...a protest project before," he said slowly.

Blair tried to smile. "Oh. Well. It's not that bad. Really, after a while it fades into the background."

"Really?" Jim said looking doubtful.

"Sure. When I was in school mom started protesting school lunches. No nutrition. The Reagan years, you know. Ketchup was a vegetable. Anyway, after a while it just becomes routine. And eventually she'll give up and move on to something else."

"How long was she on the school-lunch thing?"

"Oh, not long. I dunno, about two years, I guess."

Jim choked. "Two years!"

"Definitely less than three. Definitely."

"What did it?" He looked at the kitchen speculatively.

"Well, we moved."

"Oh, God!"

"Jim, man, chill. It's not that bad. And she means well--"

"Of course she does--" Jim froze. "It's really very kind. I mean that. It's just...weird."

"Naw. It'll be no problem. You'll see. Here, why don't you sit down? Hey, how 'bout a beer? This is no big deal, you'll see--" Any further reassurance was interrupted by the phone, and Blair went to pick it up. "Hello?"

It was Isabella from the department. The hospital was releasing Marcia tonight, and she was wondering if Blair could come help get the pair home. "She's stable enough that Jack thinks it's safe, and he doesn't want to wait. I have to agree it would be best for both of them, but transport is going to be a bit of a production. Could you lend a pair of hands for an hour or two?"

It took closer to three. Blair and another student packed up the room while Jack and Isabella got Marcia dressed and ready. Everything was slow and disorganized, and would have been even if the hospital paperwork had been ready. Marcia was optimistic and cooperative, but Jack, usually calm and methodical, was sluggish and unfocused. He looked like hell.

Somehow, eventually, the little party got out of the room, out of the hospital, into the car.... Isabella was resolutely patient and cheerful; before teaching she'd worked twenty five years in the field as a guide. She'd done all this before. Back at Jack's house she sent Jack off to shower while the students unloaded the car.

"I'll settle Marcia first," Jack protested. "You've all done enough--"

"No, now. While we're here and you can leave her with me. She's just getting undressed again, not climbing Everest."

Blair would have expected more argument; he could not imagine himself turning Jim over to anyone else under these circumstances. Still, Isabella was an experienced guide. Blair got busy putting the laundry from the suitcase in the washer so it would be ready to go when Jack finished his shower.

When he finished he went to Marcia's room to see what else needed to be done. It was the room Jack had given Jim the time he and Blair had tried to spend the night here to avoid Brackett. The door was open, but Marcia, wearing pajamas now, was sitting half in Isabella's lap, crying.

Blair backed hastily away, but Isabella's voice caught him. "Blair? We need your opinion."

"Oh. Ok. Sure." He glanced around. The other students had gone out to do some quick shopping. Jack was still in the shower. He was on his own.

"How long have you been a guide?"

"Um, legally?" He tried to smile. "About a week, now."

"No," Isabella said gently, "really?"

"Four months or so."

She nodded, absently handing Marcia a tissue. "And what is it worth to you, being a guide? What would you do for your sentinel?"

"Everything," Blair whispered. "Anything."

"And why is that? Because it's a good job? Respected? The pay isn't bad and the hours are convenient?"

Marcia was watching him very closely. Blair did not know that had brought about this conversation or what to say. He was surely being used as an example for something, but for what--? He smiled thinly. "The hours stink. The rest is ok."

"Because you think you can save him? Your sentinel?"

"No, I--No, it isn't like that. Well, sometimes it is. But mostly, I just want to give him a *chance* you know?"

Blair, worried that he might be saying the wrong thing, shut up, but Isabella motioned him to continue. "Why?"

"All we've got in the world that matters in the world is other people. It's all anybody's got really." He gave up. There was no way to explain. He was good at being a guide. Or good at being Jim's guide, anyway, and together they could accomplish amazing things.... But he could not say that aloud to the miserable woman in Isabella's arms.

"Very nice, Blair. Thank you. I think we're almost done here. Why don't you go home now?"

So Blair went home. He wanted very badly to get back to Jim.

The lights were turned down when he got in and the tv was off. For a moment Blair thought they might have gone to bed (although it wasn't quite 8:30 yet) or gone out (although it was nearly 8:30), but then he heard a soft laugh from the direction of the single pool of light made him look again. From his angle he could just see the tops of their heads. "Mom?"

Jim chuckled and whispered something and Naomi answered, "More tongue, Jim?"

"I'd love some." He whispered something else and Naomi laughed again.

"Okay, now, look, here he is. This was his third grade year and he was playing Richard Nixon and for weeks he was running around going 'I am not a crook. I am not a crook.'"

Blair hung his jacket up and came around to the front of the couch. Jim and Naomi were sitting shoulder to shoulder with a wide book open across their laps. "What's going on?"

Naomi looked up brightly. "Blair, look! He's eating tongue. He likes it."

Jim said--with far too straight a face-- "Uh huh. You hear that, Chief?"

Blair looked down at an upside-down picture of himself running around naked at a women's folk festival in Michigan. He looked about three. "Yeah, I hear that," he said.

Jim held out the plate of sliced tongue and crackers. "Come on, dig in."

"Have some, honey. We waited dinner, but then we got hungry."

"Right. Hey, hungry is good." He took a piece of the cold tongue. Actually, he was starving. Also mortified. "I think I'm gonna need a drink. Give me the wine."

Naomi held out her glass.

"Cheers," Jim said, entirely too happy. "Next we'll have some esophagus." He paused dramatically, not seeming to notice that Blair wasn't laughing. "I think I like this one best. You in the rutabaga costume." Then, innocently, "Why were you dressed as a vegetable again?"

***

That night, while Jim was in the shower and Blair was making up the couch, Naomi paused before going into the bedroom. "Honey," she said, "I've been thinking about what you said. About not all the evil in the world being done by big corporations and governments. About it being individuals, too, sometimes."

Blair nodded. "Yeah. I remember."

"I think maybe I understand the other half of that, too, now." She leaned in and kissed his cheek.

"What do you mean? The other half of what?"

"Sometimes it's the individual you have to protect. Not everyone at once, just one at a time."

Blair closed his eyes. "Oh. Yeah."

"'Night, sweetie."

"Good night, Mom." Blair climbed between the sheets and pulled the covers up. After a few minutes, Jim padded out of the bathroom, swiftly went round turning out the lights, checked the door, and then started towards the stairs.

He paused in front of the couch.

"You ok?" Blair asked.

Jim took that as an invitation and sat down in front of the couch with his back to Blair. Thrilled, Blair propped himself up on his elbows and waited. Whatever Jim came to say, the fact that he was coming voluntarily was enough.

"Your mom's really weird," was what he finally said. Then he stuttered, "I didn't mean that--"

Blair smiled. "Sure you did. Naomi is *way* out there."

"You don't mind?"

"Why should I mind? I lucked out. I mean, yeah, it's been a ride and not all of it the fun kind....But she kept me from being an ignorant dickhead." He laughed. "Think what you would be missing out on if I were *conventional*."

Jim did not laugh that. After a while, Jim said, "Last spring....there was this case. A cop was killed by a sniper, a friend of mine." Jim stopped again and Blair was afraid he wouldn't go on. He inched closer and rested his forehead against Jim's rigid shoulder. "I was a, um, a key witness because I had seen the shooter, only...the whole time we were trying to put the case together....my senses kept fading out."

"What? Like you were flopping back and forth to, um, normal?"

"No, I was flopping back and forth to completely gone. I spend a whole evening deaf. And my hands and arms went numb a couple of times."

"Oh. Hell."

"Yeah. Anyway." And Jim stopped again. "Don't freak, ok Chief?"

"Ok."

"I told Brackett."

"In theory a good idea," Blair said neutrally. Jim had to be able to discuss his former guide without his present guide freaking out.

"He said....one of the things he said was that....a lot of times....sentinels who don't wind up in a box wind up in Conover."

Dead or crazy. Some choice. Since Jim seemed to expect something, Blair searched his soul for something calm and reasonable. "That was a shitty thing to say."

"Was it true?"

"No!"

"But there is a sentinel ward--"

"Yes. Yes, there is."

"Adrian--"

"Is not a good example, Jim. Ok, listen. It's true that Sentinels are six or seven times more likely than the average American to be in treatment for emotional or mental health problems. Part of this is because sentinels have guides to notice when they need some help and the average American doesn't. And part of the problem is, well there just aren't many antidepressants sentinels can tolerate. And the ones they can take, the side effects are usually not worth it. But even so, yeah, sentinels do tend, I mean, they're under a lot more stress than the average American, even just crossing the street. So yeah. There's a problem."

Jim nodded stiffly.

"Wait," Blair said. "I'm not done. Proportionally there are more. But in absolute numbers, there aren't very many. Sentinel wards are generally pretty rare, Jim. And they tend to be small. Also, compared to the total number of sentinels, the number with really serious mental problems is only a tiny portion."

He waited for a response. Jim didn't offer one.

"I know what you've probably heard, Jim. Most sentinels admitted for help--it's not even really a psychological issue. The senses get a little out of control and they need someplace really quiet for a few weeks. A nice camping trip usually works as well. That's Isabella's research, actually. You can ask her; I'm sure she'll be at the protest. Jim, the bottom line is, you're not going crazy. The alternative to being dead is *not* being nuts."

"I look at your mom," Jim whispered, "she's not like anybody else, and I can't imagine--"

It took Blair a moment to realize that Jim wasn't changing the subject.

"You can't imagine living your whole life ninety degrees from normal?"

"She seems happy. She seems like a good person."

"Come on, it's not that big of a surprise." Blair wondered if he should feel insulted at this point. Maybe getting irritated with Jim would actually help. Before he made up his mind, Jim was moving forward.

"For *other* people."

"And now you're picturing it for you."

"Yeah," Jim said.

"You're picturing you living for years very, very different from the way you assume everybody else is."

"And it's weird."

"You don't have to be Naomi, Jim. You just have to be you. And if this is any help, I think you'll always be pretty conventional, no matter what. And as for the rest of it, you're a pretty normal sentinel."

"Oh, so for a fragile, unbalanced throwback, I'm normal." But he was smiling when he said it, so Blair let it slide. "Chief....Nobody's weird issues look like my weird issues."

Blair laughed. Immediately Jim flinched away and started to rise. Blair grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. "No, no, it's not you," he whispered. "It's just--I've been trying to get you to think about these things for four months and now...I just wish I could get you to stop thinking about it and relax. Listen to your gut. You're doing fine. Trust me, I know. You're fine. And it's gonna get better."

"You keep saying that."

"It's true."

Jim sighed and sat back down. They stayed that way for a long time, silent in the dark.

End


End file.
